THE  LIBEIARY 

OF 

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OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 
JIM  TULLY 

GIFT  OF 
MRS.  JIM  TULLY 


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CELIBATES 


New  and  Uniform  Edition  of 
GEORGE  MOORE'S  EARLY  WORKS 


Tall  12mo         Cloth         Price  $1.50  net 

SPRING  DAYS 

IMPRESSIONS  AND  OPINIONS 

CONFESSIONS   OF   A   YOUNG   MAN 

A  MUMMER'S  WIFE 

CELIBATES 

MUSLIN 

ESTHER  WATERS 

THE  BOOK  KERITH 

LEWIS  SEYMOUR  AND  SOME  WOMEN 

SISTER  TERESA 

BRENTANO'S      -      -      NEW  YORK 


CELIBATES 


BY 

GEORGE  MOORE 

author  of 
"spring  days,"  "a  mummer's  wife," 

ETC 


WITH  INTRODUCTION  BY 

TEMPLE  SCOTT 


NEW  YORK 
BRENTANO'S 

1919 


Copyright,  1895, 
Bv  MACMILLAN  AND  CO. 


Copyright,  19x5, 
B»  BRENTANO'S. 


bCHLUETER   PtlNTIKG  CO.,   NIW  YOSK 


Library 
PR 

INTRODUCTION. 

Looking  back  over  the  twenty  years  since  "  Celi. 
bates "  was  first  published  I  find  that  the  George 
Moore  of  the  earlier  year  is  the  George  Moore  of  to- 
day. The  novelist  of  1895  and  the  novelist  of  191 5  are 
one  and  the  same  person.  Each  is  really  interested  in 
himself ;  each  is  more  concerned  with  how  the  world 
and  its  humanity  appear  to  him  than  how  they  appear 
to  the  casual  observer  or  how  they  may  be  in  them- 
selves. The  writer  is  always  expressing  himself 
through  the  facts  and  personalities  which  have  stirred 
his  imagination  to  creative  effort.  George  Moore 
has  never  been  a  reporter  or  a  philosopher;  he  has 
always  been  an  artist. 

Now  to  say  that  the  author  of  **  Celibates "  is 
always  expressing  himself  does  not  at  all  mean  that 
he  is  recording  merely  his  private  sensations,  emo- 
tions, and  moods.  Egoist  as  he  is,  George  Moore 
could  not  write  his  autobiography.  He  tried  to  do 
this  lately  in  "Ave,"  "  Vale,"  and  "  Salve,"  and  failed 
—  failed  captivatingly.  He  is  always  most  himself 
when  he  is  dealing  with  what  is  not  himself  —  with 
skies  and  hills  and  ocean  and  gardens  and  men  and 
women.  Moore  is  a  naturalist  in  the  finest  sense  of 
that  word.  He  deals  with  nature  as  the  artist  must 
deal  with  it  if  nature  is  to  be  understood  and  enjoyed. 


822962 


Vi  INTRODUCTION. 

For  Moore's  relationship  with  nature,  and  especially 
with  human  nature,  is  of  that  rare  kind  which  is  the 
experience  of  the  very  few  —  of  those  fine  spirits 
endowed  with  the  highest  sympathy  —  a  sympathy 
which  is  not  a  feeling  with  or  for  others  but  an  actual 
union  with  others,  a  union  which  brings  suffering  as 
well  as  enjoyment.  This  is  the  artist's  burden  of 
sorrow  and  it  is  also  his  privilege.  It  is  because  of  it 
that  every  true  work  of  art  has  in  it  also  something 
of  a  religious  influence  —  a  binding  power  which 
unites  the  separated  onlookers  in  an  experience  of 
a  common  emotion.  If  the  artist  have  not  this  pe- 
culiar sympathy  he  can  have  no  vision  and  will  never 
be  a  creator ;  he  will  never  show  us  or  tell  us  the  new 
and  strange  mysteries  of  life  which  nature  is  continu- 
ally unfolding.  The  artist's  mission  is  to  reveal  to  us 
the  visions  he  alone  has  been  vouchsafed  to  see,  and 
to  reveal  them  so  that  the  revelation  is  a  creation. 
The  men  and  women  he  is  introducing  to  us  must  be 
as  real  and  as  living  to  us  as  they  are  to  him.  That 
is  what  George  Moore  has  done  in  "  Celibates  "  and 
that  is  why  I  say  he  is  an  artist. 

"  Celibates "  consists  of  three  stories  —  two  of 
women  and  one  of  a  man.  Mildred  Lawson  and 
John  Norton  are  celibates  by  nature.  Agnes  Lahens 
is  a  celibate  from  environment  and  circumstance. 
Each  of  the  three  is  utterly  different  from  the  other, 
and  yet  all  are  alike  in  that  they  are  the  products  of  a 
modern  civilization.  Mildred  and  John  are  without 
that  compulsive  force  which  is  known  as  the  sexual 
passion.     If  they  have  it  at  all,  it  has  been  diluted  by 


INTRODUCTION.  vfl 

tradition  and  so-called  culture  into  a  mere  sensation. 
Agnes' s  passion  is  an  arrested  one,  so  that  what  there 
is  of  it  is  easily  diverted  into  an  expression  of  religious 
aspiration. 

Mildred  Lawson  would  be  called  a  born  flirt.  She 
is  pretty,  charming,  and  talented;  but  she  is  cold, 
unresponsive,  selfish,  and  futile.  She  is  also  emi- 
nently respectable  after  the  English  middle-class 
manner.  She  has  ambition,  but  she  lacks  the  will- 
power to  school  herself  and  the  determination  to 
accomplish.  She  is  rich  in  goods  but  very  poor  in 
goodness.  She  is  often  moved  profoundly  by  beau- 
tiful thoughts  and  uplifting  emotions  of  which  she 
herself  is  the  pleasing,  pulsating  centre ;  but  her  soul 
is  negative,  so  that  her  spiritual  states  evaporate 
when  the  opportunity  is  given  her  for  transforming 
them  into  acts.  She  never  gets  anywhere.  She  is 
self-conscious  to  a  degree  and  unstable  as  water. 
After  breaking  one  man's  heart  and  deadening  the 
hearts  of  three  other  men,  she  finally  accepts  an  old 
and  rejected  sweetheart,  only  to  be  torn  by  suspicions 
that  he  no  longer  cares  for  her  and  is  marrying 
her  only  for  her  money.  We  leave  her  a  prey  to 
thoughts  of  a  life  which,  unconsciously,  she  has 
brought  on  herself. 

John  Norton  might  be  called  the  born  monk.  He 
is,  however,  but  the  male  embodiment  of  that  cul- 
tured selfishness  of  which  Mildred  Lawson  is  the 
female  expression.  He  is  not  a  flirt.  He  takes  life 
too  seriously  to  be  that ;  but  he  takes  it  so  seriously 
that  there  is  only  room  in  the  world  for  himself  alone. 


Viii  INTRODUCTION. 

He  comes  of  a  fine  old  English  stock,  is  rich,  and  is 
his  own  master.  He  treats  his  mother  as  a  cold- 
blooded English  gentleman,  with  Norton's  peculiar 
nature,  would  treat  a  mother  —  with  polite  but  firm 
disregard  of  her  claims.  He  has  enough  and  to  spare 
of  will-power,  but  it  is  become  degenerated  into 
obstinacy.  He  fails  because  he  wants  too  much, 
because  he  is  unsocial  at  heart,  and  does  not  under- 
stand that  life  means  giving  as  well  as  taking.  Hi? 
sexual  passion  finds  expression  in  a  religious  fanati- 
cism which  is  but  the  expression  of  utter  selfishness, 
as  all  sexual  passion  is.  In  the  company  of  Kitty  he 
has  moments  of  exaltation,  when  his  degenerate  pas- 
sion scents  the  pure  air  of  love;  but  he  can  never  let 
himself  go.  When,  on  one  occasion,  he  so  far  for- 
gets himself  as  to  allow  his  heart  to  be  responsive  to 
Kitty's  natural  purity  and  he  kisses  her,  he  is  so 
shocked  at  what  he  has  done  that  he  runs  away  and 
leaves  the  girl  to  a  terrible  fate.  We  leave  him  also 
a  prey  to  thoughts  of  what  he  might  have  prevented. 
He,  too,  like  Mildred  Lawson,  must  henceforth  face 
a  life  of  his  own  unconscious  making. 

Agnes  Lahens  is  the  victim  of  a  heartless,  selfish 
society  in  which  the  abuse  of  love  has  made  its  world 
a  desert  and  its  products  Dead  Sea  fruit.  Out  of  a 
sheer  impulse  for  self-protection  she  flies  to  the 
nunnery,  which  is  ready  to  give  her  life  at  the  price 
of  her  womanhood  and  her  self-sacrifice. 

As  portraits,  these  of  Mildred  Lawson  and  John 
Norton  are  exquisitely  finished.  They  are  half- 
lengths,  with  a  quality  of  coloring  fascinating  in  its 


INTRODUCTION.  IX 

repelling  truth.  Every  tint  and  shade  have  been 
cunningly  and  caressingly  laid  in,  so  that  the  features, 
living  and  animated,  are  yet  filled  with  suggestions  of 
the  spiritual  barrenness  in  the  originals.  Very  human 
they  are,  and  yet  they  are  without  those  gracious 
qualities  which  link  humanity  with  what  we  feel  to  be 
divine.  There  is  the  touch  of  nature  here,  but  it  is 
not  the  touch  which  makes  the  whole  world  kin. 
That  touch  we  ourselves  supply ;  and  it  speaks  elo- 
quently for  Moore's  art  that  in  picturing  these  un- 
lovely beings  he  throws  us  back  on  our  better  selves. 
Beyond  the  vision  of  these  celibates  here  revealed  we 
see  a  passionate  humanity,  working,  hating,  sorrow- 
ing, and  dying,  yet  always  loving,  and  in  loving  find- 
ing its  fullest  life  in  an  earthly  salvation.  True  love 
is  a  mighty  democrat.  Knowing  these  "Celibates," 
we  welcome  the  more  gladly  those  who,  even  if  less 
gifted,  are  ready  to  walk  with  us,  hand  in  hand, 
along  the  common  human  highway  of  the  "  pilgrim's 

progress." 

TEMPLE   SCOTT. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

Mildred  Lawson ^ 

John  Norton 257 

Agnes  Lahens 37^ 


MILDRED    LAWSON. 


CELIBATES. 

MILDRED    LAWSON. 
I. 

The  tall  double  stocks  were  breathing  heavily 
in  the  dark  garden ;  the  delicate  sweetness  of  the 
syringa  moved  as  if  on  tip-toe  towards  the  win- 
dows ;  but  it  was  the  aching  smell  of  lilies  that  kept 
Mildred  awake. 

As  she  tossed  to  and  fro  the  recollections  of  the 
day  turned  and  turned  in  her  brain,  ticking  loudly, 
and  she  could  see  each  event  as  distinctly  as  the 
figures  on  the  dial  of  a  great  clock. 

'What  a  strange  woman  that  Mrs.  Fargus  —  her 
spectacles,  her  short  hair,  and  that  dreadful  cap 
which  she  wore  at  the  tennis  party !  It  was  impos- 
sible not  to  feel  sorry  for  her,  she  did  look  so  ridic- 
ulous. I  wonder  her  husband  allows  her  to  make 
such  a  guy  of  herself.  What  a  curious  little  man, 
his  great  cough  and  that  foolish  shouting  manner; 


2  CELIBATES. 

a  good-natured,  empty-headed  little  fellow.  They 
are  a  funny  couple!  Harold  knew  her  husband  at 
Oxford;  they  were  at  the  same  college.  She  took 
honours  at  Oxford  ;  that's  why  she  seemed  out  of 
place  in  a  little  town  like  Sutton.  She  is  quite 
different  from  her  husband ;  he  couldn't  pass  his 
examinations ;  he  had  been  obliged  to  leave.  .  .  . 
What  made  them  marry  .^ 

*I  don't  know  anything  about  Comte  —  I  wish  I 
did  ;  it  is  so  dreadful  to  be  ignorant.  I  never  felt 
my  ignorance  before,  but  that  little  woman  does 
make  me  feel  it,  not  that  she  intrudes  her  learning 
on  any  one ;  I  wish  she  did,  for  I  want  to  learn. 
I  wish  I  could  remember  what  she  told  me :  that 
all  knowledge  passes  through  three  states :  the  theo- 
logical, the  —  the  —  metaphysical,  and  the  scientific. 
We  are  religious  when  we  are  children,  metaphysi- 
cal when  we  are  one-and-twenty,  and  as  we  get  old 
we  grow  scientific.  And  I  must  not  forget  this,  that 
what  is  true  for  the  individual  is  true  for  the  race. 
In  the  earliest  ages  man  was  religious  (I  wonder 
what  our  vicar  would  say  if  he  heard  this).  In  the 
Middle  Ages  man  was  metaphysical,  and  in  these 
latter  days  he  is  growing  scientific. 

'The  other  day  when  I  came  into  the  drawing- 
room  she  didn't  say  a  word.  I  waited  and  waited 
to  see  if  she  would  speak  —  no,  not  a  word.     She 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  3 

sat  reading.  Occasionally  she  would  look  up,  stare 
at  the  ceiling,  and  then  take  a  note.  I  wonder  what 
she  put  down  on  that  slip  of  paper?  But  when  I 
spoke  she  seemed  glad  to  talk,  and  she  told  me  about 
Oxford.  It  evidently  was  the  pleasantest  time  of 
her  life.  It  must  have  been  very  curious.  There 
were  a  hundred  girls,  and  they  used  to  run  in  and 
out  of  each  other's  rooms,  and  they  had  dances ; 
they  danced  with  each  other,  and  never  thought 
about  men.  She  told  me  she  never  enjoyed  any 
dances  so  much  as  those ;  and  they  had  a  gymna- 
sium, and  special  clothes  to  wear  there — a  sort  of 
bloomer  costume.  It  must  have  been  very  jolly. 
I  wish  I  had  gone  to  Oxford.  Girls  dancing  to- 
gether, and  never  thinking  about  men.  How 
nice! 

'  At  Oxford  they  say  that  marriage  is  not  the 
only  mission  for  women  —  that  is  to  say,  for  some 
women.  They  don't  despise  marriage,  but  they 
think  that  for  some  women  there  is  another  mis- 
sion. When  I  spoke  to  Mrs.  Fargus  about  her  mar- 
riage, she  had  to  admit  that  she  had  written  to  her 
college  friends  to  apologise  —  no,  not  to  apologise, 
she  said,  but  to  explain.  She  was  not  ashamed,  but 
she  thought  she  owed  them  an  explanation.  Just 
fancy  any  of  the  girls  in  Sutton  being  ashamed  of 
being  married ! ' 


4  CELIBATES. 

The  darkness  was  thick  with  wandering  scents, 
and  Mildred's  thoughts  withered  in  the  heat.  She 
closed  her  eyes;  she  lay  quite  still,  but  the  fever 
of  the  night  devoured  her;  the  sheet  burned  like  a 
flame;  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  was  soon  thinking 
as  eagerly  as  before. 

She  thought  of  the  various  possibilities  that 
marriage  would  shut  out  to  her  for  ever.  She 
reproached  herself  for  having  engaged  herself  to 
Alfred  Stanby,  and  remembered  that  Harold  had 
been  opposed  to  the  match,  and  had  refused  to 
give  his  consent  until  Alfred  was  in  a  position  to 
settle  five  hundred  a  year  upon  her.  .  .  .  Alfred 
would  expect  her  to  keep  house  for  him  exactly  as 
she  was  now  keeping  house  for  her  brother.  Year 
after  year  the  same  thing,  seeing  Alfred  go  away  in 
the  morning,  seeing  him  come  home  in  the  evening. 
That  was  how  her  life  would  pass.  She  did  not 
wish  to  be  cruel ;  she  knew  that  Alfred  would  suffer 
terribly  if  she  broke  off  her  engagement,  but  it 
would  be  still  more  cruel  to  marry  him  if  she  did 
not  think  she  would  make  him  happy,  and  the  con- 
viction that  she  would  not  make  him  happy  pressed 
heavily  upon  her.  What  was  she  to  do  ?  She  could 
not,  she  dared  not,  face  the  life  he  offered  her. 
It  would  be  selfish  of  her  to  do  so. 

The   word   'selfish'    suggested    a    new    train    of 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  5 

thought  to  Mildred.  She  argued  that  it  was  not 
for  selfish  motives  that  she  desired  freedom.  If 
she  thought  that,  she  would  marry  him  to-morrow. 
It  was  because  she  did  not  wish  to  lead  a  selfish 
life  that  she  intended  to  break  off  her  engagement. 
She  wished  to  live  for  something;  she  wished  to 
accomplish  something;  what  could  she  do.?  There 
was  art.  She  would  like  to  be  an  artist!  She 
paused,  astonished  at  the  possibility.  But  why  not 
she  as  well  as  the  other  women  whom  she  had  met 
at  Mrs.  Fargus' }  She  had  met  many  artists  — 
ladies  who  had  studios — at  Mrs.  Fargus'. 

She  had  been  to  their  studios  and  had  admired 
their  independence.  They  had  spoken  of  study  in 
Paris,  and  of  a  village  near  Paris  where  they  went 
to  paint  landscape.  Each  had  a  room  at  the  inn ; 
they  met  at  meal  times,  and  spent  the  day  in  the 
woods  and  fields.  Mildred  had  once  been  fond 
of  drawing,  and  in  the  heat  of  the  summer  night 
she  wondered  if  she  could  do  anything  worth  doing. 
She  knew  that  she  would  like  to  try.  She  would 
do  anything  sooner  than  settle  down  with  Alfred. 
Marriage  and  children  were  not  the  only  possibili- 
ties in  woman's  life.  The  girls  she  knew  thought 
so,  but  the  girls  Mrs.  Fargus  knew  didn't  think 
so. 

And  rolling  over  in  her  hot   bed   she   lamented 


6  CELIBATES. 

that  there  was  no  escape  for  a  girl  from  marriage. 
If  so,  why  not  Alfred  Stanby  —  he  as  well  as  an- 
other ?  But  no,  she  could  not  settle  down  to  keep 
house  for  Alfred  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  She  asked 
herself  again  why  she  should  marry  at  all  —  what  it 
was  that  compelled  all  girls,  rich  or  poor,  it  was  all 
the  same,  to  marry  and  keep  house  for  their  hus- 
bands. She  remembered  that  she  had  five  hundred 
a  year,  and  that  she  would  have  four  thousand  a 
year  if  her  brother  died  —  the  distillery  was  worth 
that.  But  money  made  no  difference.  There  was 
something  in  life  which  forced  all  girls  into  mar- 
riage, with  their  will  or  against  their  will.  Mar- 
riage, marriage,  always  marriage — always  the  eternal 
question  of  sex,  as  if  there  was  nothing  else  in  the 
world.  But  there  was  much  else  in  life.  There 
was  a  nobler  purpose  in  life  than  keeping  house 
for  a  man.  Of  that  she  felt  quite  sure,  and  she 
hoped  that  she  would  find  a  vocation.  She  must 
first  educate  herself,  so  far  she  knew,  and  that  was 
all  that  was  at  present  necessary  for  her  to  know. 
'  But  how  hot  it  is ;  I  shan't  be  able  to  go  out 
in  the  cart  to-morrow.  ...  I  wish  everything  would 
change,  especially  the  weather.  I  want  to  go  away. 
I  hate  living  in  a  house  without  another  woman. 
I  wish  Harold  would  let  me  have  a  companion  —  a 
nice  elderly  lady,   but   not   too  elderly  —  a  woman 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  7 

about  forty,  who  could  talk ;  some  one  like  Mrs. 
Fargus.  When  mother  was  alive  it  was  different. 
She  has  been  dead  now  three  years.  How  long  it 
seems !  .  .  .  Poor  mother !  I  wish  she  were  here. 
I  scarcely  knew  much  of  father;  he  went  to  the 
city  every  morning,  just  as  Harold  does,  by  that 
dreadful  ten  minutes  past  nine.  It  seems  to  me 
that  I  have  never  heard  of  anything  all  my  life  but 
that  horrible  ten  minutes  past  nine  and  the  half- 
past  six  from  London  Bridge.  I  don't  hear  so 
much  about  the  half-past  six,  but  the  ten  minutes 
past  nine  is  never  out  of  my  head.  Father  is  dead 
seven  years,  mother  is  dead  three,  and  since  her 
death  I  have  kept  house  for  Harold.' 

Then  as  sleep  pressed  upon  her  eyelids  Mil- 
dred's thoughts  grew  disjointed.  .  .  .  'Alfred,  I 
have  thought  it  all  over.  I  cannot  marry  you.  .  .  . 
Do  not  reproach  me,'  she  said  between  dreaming 
and  waking ;  and  as  the  purple  space  of  sky  be- 
tween the  trees  grew  paler,  she  heard  the  first 
birds.  Then  dream  and  reality  grew  undistinguish- 
able,  and  listening  to  the  carolling  of  a  thrush  she 
saw  a  melancholy  face,  and  then  a  dejected  figure 
pass  into  the  twilight. 


II. 


'  What  a  fright  I  am  looking !  I  did  not  get  to 
sleep  till  after  two  o'clock ;  the  heat  was  something 
dreadful,  and  to-day  will  be  hotter  still.  One 
doesn't  know  what  to  wear.' 

She  settled  the  ribbons  in  her  white  dress,  and 
looked  once  again  in  the  glass  to  see  if  the  soft, 
almost  fluffy,  hair,  which  the  least  breath  disturbed 
was  disarranged.  She  smoothed  it  with  her  short 
white  hand.  There  was  a  wistful  expression  in  her 
brown  eyes,  a  little  pathetic  won't-you-care-for-me 
expression  which  she  cultivated,  knowing  its  charm 
in  her  somewhat  short,  rather  broad  face,  which 
ended  in  a  pointed  chin  :  the  nose  was  slightly 
tip-tilted,  her  teeth  were  white,  but  too  large.  Her 
figure  was  delicate,  and  with  quick  steps  she  hurried 
along  the  passages  and  down  the  high  staircase. 
Harold  was  standing  before  the  fireplace,  reading 
the   Times,  when  she  entered. 

'You  are  rather  late,  Mildred.  I  am  afraid  I 
shall  lose  the  ten  minutes  past  nine.' 

8 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  9 

'My  dear  Harold,  you  have  gone  up  to  town  for 
the  last  ten  years  by  that  train,  and  every  day  we 
go  through  a  little  scene  of  fears  and  doubts  ;  you 
have  never  yet  missed  it,  I  may  safely  assume  you 
will  not  miss  it  this  morning.' 

*  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  order  the  cart,  and 
I  like  to  get  a  walk  if  possible  in  the  morning.' 

'I  can  walk  it  in  twelve  minutes.' 

*I  shouldn't  like  to  walk  it  in  this  broiling  sun 
in  fifteen.  ...  By  the  way,  have  you  looked  at  the 
glass  this  morning.?* 

*  No  ;  I  am  tired  of  looking  at  it.  It  never  moves 
from  "  set  fair."  ' 

*It  is  intolerably  hot  —  can  you  sleep  at  night.?' 

*  No ;  I  didn't  get  to  sleep  till  after  two.  I  lay 
awake  thinking  of  Mrs.  Fargus,' 

*  I  never  saw  you  talk  to  a  woman  like  that  before. 
I  wonder  what  you  see  in  her.  She's  very  plain. 
I  daresay  she's  very  clever,  but  she  never  says  any- 
thing—  at  least  not  to  me.' 

'She  talks  fast  enough  on  her  own  subjects. 
You  didn't  try  to  draw  her  out.  She  requires 
drawing  out.  .  .  .  But  it  wasn't  so  much  Mrs. 
Fargus  as  having  a  woman  in  the  house.  It 
makes  one's  life  so  different ;  one  feels  more  at 
ease.     I  think  I  ought  to  have  a  companion,' 

*  Have  a  middle-aged  lady  here,  who  would  bore 


lO  CELIBATES. 

me  with  her  conversation  all  through  dinner  when 
I  come  home  from  the  City  tired  and  worn  out!' 

*  But  you  don't  think  that  your  conversation  when 
you  "  come  home  from  the  City  tired  and  worn  out " 
has  no  interest  whatever  for  me ;  that  this  has 
turned  out  a  good  investment ;  that  the  shares  have 
gone  up,  and  will  go  up  again  ?  I  should  like  to 
know  how  I  am  to  interest  myself  in  all  that. 
What  has  it  to  do  with  me  ? ' 

'  What  has  it  to  do  with  you  !  How  do  you  think 
that  this  house  and  grounds,  carriages  and  horses 
and  servants,  glasshouses  without  end,  are  paid  for  ? 
Do  I  ever  grumble  about  the  dressmakers'  bills  ?  — 
and  heaven  knows  they  are  high  enough.  I  believe 
all  your  hats  and  hosiery  are  put  down  to  house 
expenses,  but  I  never  grumble.  I  let  you  have 
everything  you  want  —  horses,  carriages,  dresses, 
servants.  You  ought  to  be  the  happiest  girl  in  the 
world  in  this  beautiful  place.' 

*  Beautiful  place  !  I  hate  the  place ;  I  hate  it  — 
a  nasty,  gaudy,  vulgar  place,  in  a  vulgar  suburb, 
where  nothing  but  money-grubbing  is  thought  of 
from  morning,  noon,  till  night;  how  much  percent- 
age can  be  got  out  of  everything;  cut  down  the 
salaries  of  the  employees ;  work  everything  on  the 
most  economic  basis;  it  does  not  matter  what  the  em- 
ployees suffer  so  long  as  seven  per  cent,  dividend 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  II 

is  declared  at  the  end  of  the  year.  I  hate  the 
place.' 

'  My  dear,  dear  Mildred,  what  are  you  saying  ?  I 
never  heard  you  talk  like  this  before,  Mrs.  Fargus 
has  been  fiUing  your  head  with  nonsense.  I  wish 
I  had  never  asked  her  to  the  house ;  absurd  little 
creature,  with  her  eternal  talk  about  culture,  her 
cropped  hair,  and  her  spectacles  glimmering.  What 
nonsense  she  has  filled  your  head  with ! ' 

*  Mrs.  Fargus  is  a  very  clever  woman.  ...  I  think 
I  should  like  go  to  Girton.' 

'Go  to  Girton!' 

'Yes,  go  to  Girton.  I've  never  had  any  proper 
education.  I  should  like  to  learn  Greek.  Living 
here,  cooped  up  with  a  man  all  one's  life  isn't  my 
idea.  I  should  like  to  see  more  of  my  own  sex. 
Mrs.  Fargus  told  me  about  the  emulation  of  the 
class-rooms,  about  the  gymnasium,  about  the  dances 
the  girls  had  in  each  other's  rooms.  She  never 
enjoyed  any  dances  like  those.  She  said  that  I  must 
feel  lonely  living  in  a  house  without  another  woman.' 

'  I  know  what  it'll  be.  I  shall  never  hear  the  end 
of  Mrs.  Fargus.     I  wish  I'd  never  asked  them.' 

'  Men  are  so  selfish  !  If  by  any  chance  they  do 
anything  that  pleases  any  one  but  themselves,  how 
they  regret  it.' 

Harold  was  about  the  middle  height,  but  he  gave 


12  CELIBATES. 

the  impression  of  a  small  man.  He  was  good-look- 
ing; but  his  features  were  without  charm,  for  his 
mind  was  uninteresting — a  dry,  barren  mind,  a 
somewhat  stubbly  mind  —  but  there  was  an  honest 
kindliness  in  his  little  eyes  which  was  absent  from 
his  sister's.  The  conversation  had  paused,  and  he 
glanced  quickly  every  now  and  then  at  her  pretty, 
wistful  face,  expressive  at  this  moment  of  much  irri- 
tated and  nervous  dissatisfaction;  also  an  irritated 
obstinacy  lurked  in  her  eyes,  and,  knowing  how  obsti- 
nate she  was  in  her  ideas,  Harold  sincerely  dreaded 
that  she  might  go  off  to  Girton  to  learn  Greek — 
any  slightest  word  might  precipitate  the  catastrophe. 

•  I  think  at  least  that  I  might  have  a  companion,' 
she  said  at  last. 

*  Of  course  you  can  have  a  companion  if  you  like, 
Mildred;  but  I  thought  you  were  going  to  marry 
Alfred  Stanby.?' 

'You  objected  to  him;  you  said  he  had  nothing — 
that  he  couldn't  afford  to  marry.' 

*Yes,  until  he  got  his  appointment;  but  I  hear 
now  that  he's  nearly  certain  of  it.' 

*I  don't  think  I  could  marry  Alfred.' 

'You  threw  Lumly  over,  who  was  an  excellent 
match,  for  Alfred.  So  long  as  Alfred  wasn't  in  a 
position  to  marry  you,  you  would  hear  of  no  one 
else,  and  now  —  but  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  are 
going  to  throw  him  over.' 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  I3 

*I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do.' 

*  Well,  I  have  no  time  to  discuss  the  matter  with 
you  now.  It  is  seven  minutes  to  nine.  I  shall  only 
have  just  time  to  catch  the  train  by  walking  very 
fast.     Good-bye.' 

♦Please,  mum,  any  orders  to-day  for  the  butcher.'* 

♦Always  the  same  question  —  how  tired  I  am  of 
hearing  the  same  words.  I  suppose  it  is  very 
wicked  of  me  to  be  so  discontented,'  thought  Mil- 
dred, as  she  sat  on  the  sofa  with  her  key-basket  in 
her  hand ;  *  but  I  have  got  so  tired  of  Sutton.  I 
know  I  shouldn't  bother  Harold;  he  is  very  good 
and  he  does  his  best  to  please  me.  It  is  very  odd. 
I  was  all  right  till  Mrs.  Fargus  came,  she  upset  me. 
It  was  all  in  my  mind  before,  no  doubt;  but  she 
brought  it  out.  Now  I  can't  interest  myself  in  any- 
thing. I  really  don't  care  to  go  to  this  tennis  party, 
and  the  people  who  go  there  are  not  in  the  least 
interesting.  I  am  certain  I  should  not  meet  a  soul 
whom  I  should  care  to  speak  to.  No,  I  won't  go 
there.  There's  a  lot  to  be  done  in  the  greenhouses, 
and  in  the  afternoon  I  will  write  a  long  letter  to 
Mrs.  Fargus.  She  promised  to  send  me  a  list  of 
books  to  read.' 

There  was  nothing  definite  in  her  mind,  but 
something  was  germinating  within  her,  and  when 
the  work  of  the  day  was   done,  she  wondered  at 


14  CELIBATES. 

the  great  tranquillity  of  the  garden.  A  servant 
was  there  in  a  print  dress,  and  the  violet  of  the 
skies  and  the  green  of  the  trees  seemed  to  be 
closing  about  her  like  a  tomb.  *  How  beautiful ! ' 
Mildred  mused  softly ;    *  I  wish  I  could  paint  that' 

A  little  surprised  and  startled,  she  went  upstairs 
to  look  for  her  box  of  water-colours ;  she  had  not 
used  it  since  she  left  school.  She  found  also  an 
old  block,  with  a  few  sheets  remaining ;  and  she 
worked  on  and  on,  conscious  only  of  the  green 
stillness  of  the  trees  and  the  romance  of  rose  and 
grey  that  the  sky  unfolded.  She  had  begun  her 
second  water-colour,  and  was  so  intent  upon  it  as 
not  to  be  aware  that  a  new  presence  had  come  into 
the  garden.  Alfred  Stanby  was  walking  towards 
her.  He  was  a  tall,  elegantly  dressed,  good-look- 
ing young  man. 

'  What !  painting  ?  I  thought  you  had  given  it 
up.     Let  me  see.* 

*  Oh,  Alfred,  how  you  startled  me  ! ' 

He  took  the  sketch  from  the  girl's  lap,  and 
handing  it  back,  he  said : 

*I  suppose  you  had  nothing  else  to  do  this 
afternoon ;  it  was  too  hot  to  go  out  in  the  cart. 
Do  you  like  painting.?' 

'Yes,  I  think  I  do.' 

They   were  looking   at   each   other  —  and    there 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  1 5 

was  a  questioning  look  in  the  girl's  eyes  —  for  she 
perceived  in  that  moment  more  distinctly  than 
she  had  before  the  difference  in  their  natures. 

'  Have  you  finished  the  smoking  cap  you  are 
making  for  me  ? ' 

'No;  I  did  not  feel  inclined  to  go  on  with  it.' 

Something  in  Mildred's  tone  of  voice  and  manner 
struck  Alfred,  and,  dropping  his  self-consciousness, 
he  said : 

'  You  thought  that  I'd  like  a  water-colour  sketch 
better.' 

Mildred  did  not  answer. 

'I  should  like  to  have  some  drawings  to  hang  in 
the  smoking-room  when  we're  married.  But  I  like 
figures  better  than  landscapes.  You  never  tried 
horses  and  dogs,  did  you .? ' 

*No,  I  never  did,'  Mildred  answered  languidly, 
and  she  continued  to  work  on  her  sky.  But  her 
thoughts  were  far  from  it,  and  she  noticed  that  she 
was  spoiling  it.     *No,  I  never  tried  horses  and  dogs.' 

'  But  you  could,  dearest,  if  you  were  to  try.  You 
could  do  anything  you  tried.     You  are  so  clever.' 

'  I  don't  know  that  I  am ;  I  should  like  to  be.' 

They  looked  at  each  other,  and  anxiously  each 
strove  to  read  the  other's  thoughts. 

'  Landscapes  are  more  suited  to  a  drawing-room 
than   a    smoking-room.     It   will   look   very   well   in 


l6  CELIBATES. 

your  drawing-room  when  we're  married.  We  shall 
want  some  pictures  to  cover  the  walls.' 

At  the  word  marriage,  Mildred's  lips  seemed  to 
grow  thinner.  The  conversation  paused.  Alfred 
noticed  that  she  hesitated,  that  she  was  striving  to 
speak.  She  had  broken  off  her  engagement  once 
before  with  him,  and  he  had  begun  to  fear  that 
she  was  going  to  do  so  again.  There  was  a  look 
of  mingled  irresolution  and  determination  in  her 
face.  She  continued  to  work  on  her  sky ;  but  at 
every  touch  it  grew  worse,  and,  feeling  that  she  had 
irretrievably  spoilt  her  drawing,  she  said : 

*  But  do  you  think  that  we  shall  ever  be  married, 
Alfred  ? ' 

*Of  course.  Why.^  Are  you  going  to  break  it 
off.?' 

'We  have  been  engaged  nearly  two  years,  and 
there  seems  no  prospect  of  our  being  married. 
Harold  will  never  consent.  It  does  not  seem  fair 
to  keep  you  waiting  any  longer.' 

'I'd  willingly  wait  twenty  years  for  you,  Mildred.' 

She  looked  at  him  a  little  tenderly,  and  he  con- 
tinued more  confidently.  'But  I'm  glad  to  say  there 
is  no  longer  any  question  of  waiting.  My  father  has 
consented  to  settle  four  hundred  a  year  upon  me, 
the  same  sum  as  your  brother  proposes  to  settle  on 
you.     We  can  be  married  when  you  like.' 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  1 7 

She  only  looked  at  the  spoilt  water-colour,  and  it 
was  with  difficulty  that  Alfred  restrained  himself 
from  snatching  it  out  of  her  hands. 

'  You  do  not  answer.  You  heard  what  I  said,  that 
my  father  had  agreed  to  settle  four  hundred  a  year 
upon  me.'* 

*  I'm  sure  I'm  very  glad,  for  your  sake.' 
'That's  a  very  cold  answer,  Mildred.     I  think  I 

can  say  that  I'm  sure  of  the  appointment.' 

*  I'm  glad,  indeed  I  am,  Alfred.* 
'But  only  for  my  sake.?' 

Mildred  sat  looking  at  the  water-colour. 

'You  see  our  marriage  has  been  delayed  so  long; 
many  things  have  come  between  us.* 

'  What  things  >  * 

'  Much  that  I'm  afraid  you'd  not  understand. 
You've  often  reproached  me,'  she  said,  her  voice 
quickening  a  little,  'with  coldness.  I'm  cold;  it  is 
not  my  fault.  I'm  afraid  I'm  not  like  other  girls. 
...  I  don't  think  I  want  to  be  married,' 

'  This  is  Mrs.  Fargus'  doing.     What  do  you  want  ?  * 

'I'm  not  quite  sure.     I  should  like  to  study.' 

'This  must  be  Mrs.  Fargus.' 

*I  should  like  to  do  something.' 

'  But  marriage ' 

'Marriage  is  not  everything.  There  are  other 
things.     I  should  like  to  study  art.* 


l8  CELIBATES. 

'But  marriage  won't  prevent  your  studying  art.' 
'I  want  to  go  away,  to   leave  Sutton.     I   should 
like  to  travel.' 

'But  we  should  travel — our  honeymoon.' 

*  I  don't  think  I  could  give  up  my  freedom, 
Alfred;  I've  thought  it  all  over.  I'm  afraid  I'm 
not  the  wife  for  you.' 

*  Some  one  else  has  come  between  us .'  Some 
one  richer.     Who's  this  other  fellow  ? ' 

'  No ;  there's  no  one  else.  I  assure  you  there's 
no  one  else.  I  don't  think  I  shall  marry  at  all. 
There  are  other  things  besides  marriage.  .  .  .  I'm 
not  fitted  for  marriage.  I'm  not  strong.  I  don't 
think  I  could  have  children.     It  would  kill  me.' 

'All  this  is  the  result  of  Mrs.  Fargus.  I  can 
read  her  ideas  in  every  word  you  say.  Women 
like  Mrs.  Fargus  ought  to  be  ducked  in  the  horse- 
pond.     They're  a  curse.' 

Mildred  smiled. 

'You're  as  strong  as  other  girls.  I  never  heard 
of  anything  being  the  matter  with  you.  You're 
rather  thin,  that's  all.  You  ought  to  go  away  for 
a  change  of  air.  I  never  heard  such  things ;  a 
young  girl  who  has  been  brought  up  like  you.  I 
don't  know  what  Harold  would  say  —  not  fitted 
for  marriage ;  not  strong  enough  to  bear  children. 
What  conversations  you  must   have  had  with  Mrs. 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  ig 

Fargus ;  studying  art,  and  the  rest  of  it.  Really, 
Mildred,  I  did  not  think  a  young  girl  ever  thought 
of  such  things.' 

'We  cannot  discuss  the  subject.  We  had  better 
let  it  drop.' 

'  Yes,'  he  said,  '  we'd  better  say  no  more ;  the 
least  said  the  soonest  mended.  You're  ill,  you 
don't  know  what  you're  saying.  You're  not  look- 
ing well ;  you've  been  brooding  over  things.  You'd 
better  go  away  for  a  change.  When  you  come 
back  you'll  think  differently.' 

*  Go  away  for  a  change !  Yes,'  she  said,  *  I've 
been  thinking  over  things  and  am  not  feeling  well. 
But  I  know  my  own  mind  now.  I  can  never  love 
you  as  I  should  like  to.' 

'Then  you'd  like  to  love  me.  Ah,  I  will  make 
you  love  me.  I'll  teach  you  to  love  me !  Only 
give  me  the  chance.' 

'I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  love — at  least,  not  as 
other  girls  do.' 

He  leaned  forward  and  took  her  hand ;  he  caught 
her  other  hand,  and  the  movement  expressed  his 
belief  in  his  power  to  make  her  love  him. 

'  No,'  she  said,  resisting  him.  *  You  cannot.  I'm 
as  cold  as  ice.' 

'Think  what  you're  doing,  Mildred.  You're  sac- 
rificing   a    great    love — (no    man    will    ever    love 


20  CELIBATES. 

you  as  I  do) — and  for  a  lot  of  stuff  about  educa- 
tion that  Mrs.  Fargus  has  filled  your  head  with. 
You're  sacrificing  your  life  for  that,'  he  said,  point- 
ing to  the  sketch  that  had  fallen  on  the  grass.  *  Is 
it  worth  it.?' 

She  picked  up  the  sketch. 

•It  was  better  before  you  came/  she  said,  exam- 
ining it  absent-mindedly.  '  I  went  on  working  at  it ; 
I've  spoiled  it.'  Then,  noticing  the  incongruity,  she 
added,  'But  it  doesn't  matter.  Art  is  not  the  only 
thing  in  the  world.  There  is  good  to  be  done  if 
one  only  knew  how  to  do  it.  I  don't  mean  charity, 
such  goodness  is  only  on  the  surface,  it  is  merely 
a  short  cut  to  the  real  true  goodness.  Art  may  be 
only  selfishness,  indeed  I'm  inclined  to  think  it  is, 
but  art  is  education,  not  the  best,  perhaps,  but  the 
best  within  my  reach.' 

'Mildred,  I  really  do  not  understand.  You  can- 
not be  well,  or  you  wouldn't  talk  so.' 

'I'm  quite  well,'  she  said.  'I  hardly  expected 
you  would  understand.  But  I  beg  you  to  believe 
that  I  cannot  act  otherwise.  My  life  is  not  with 
you.     I  feel  sure  of  that.' 

The  words  were  spoken  so  decisively  that  he 
knew  he  would  not  succeed  in  changing  her.  Then 
his  face  grew  pale  with  anger,  and  he  said : 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  21 

'Then  everything  you've  said — all  your  promises 
— everything  was  a  lie,  a  wretched  lie.' 

*  No,  Alfred,  I  tried  to  believe.  I  did  believe,  but 
I  had  not  thought  much  then.  Remember,  I  was 
only  eighteen.'  She  gathered  up  her  painting  ma- 
terials, and,  holding  out  her  hand,  said,  'Won't  you 
forgive  me?' 

'No,  I  cannot  forgive  you.' 

She  saw  him  walk  down  the  pathway,  she  saw  him 
disappear  in  the  shadow.  And  this  rupture  was  all 
that  seemed  real  in  their  love  story.  It  was  in  his 
departure  that  she  felt,  for  the  first  time,  the  touch 
of  reality. 


III. 

Mildred  did  not  see  Alfred  again.  In  the  pauses 
of  her  painting  she  wondered  if  he  thought  of  her,  if 
he  missed  her.  Something  had  gone  out  of  her  life, 
but  a  great  deal  more  had  come  into  it. 

Mr.  Hoskin,  a  young  painter,  whose  pictures  were 
sometimes  rejected  in  the  Academy,  but  who  was  a 
little  lion  in  the  minor  exhibitions,  came  once  a  week 
to  give  her  lessons,  and  when  she  went  to  town  she 
called  at  his  studio  with  her  sketches.  Mr.  Hoskin's 
studio  was  near  the  King's  Road,  the  last  of  a  row  of 
red  houses,  with  gables,  cross-beams,  and  palings. 
He  was  a  good-looking,  blond  man,  somewhat  in- 
clined to  the  poetical  and  melancholy  type ;  his  hair 
bristled,  and  he  wore  a  close-cut  red  beard ;  the 
moustache  was  long  and  silky;  there  was  a  gentle, 
pathetic  look  in  his  pale  blue  eyes ;  and  a  slight  hesi- 
tation of  speech,  an  inability  to  express  himself  in 
words,  created  a  passing  impression  of  a  rather 
foolish,  tiresome  person.  But  beneath  this  exterior 
there  lay  a  deep,  true  nature,  which  found  expression 
in  twilit  landscapes,  the  tenderness  of  cottage  lights 

22 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  23 

in  the  gloaming,  vague  silhouettes,  and  vague  skies 
and  fields.  Ralph  Hoskin  was  very  poor :  his 
pathetic  pictures  did  not  find  many  purchasers,  and 
he  lived  principally  by  teaching. 

But  he  had  not  given  Mildred  her  fourth  lesson  in 
landscape  painting  when  he  received  an  advantage- 
ous offer  to  copy  two  pictures  by  Turner  in  the 
National  Gallery.  Would  it  be  convenient  to  her  to 
take  her  lesson  on  Friday  instead  of  on  Thursday } 
She  listened  to  him,  her  eyes  wide  open,  and  then  in 
her  little  allusive  way  suggested  that  she  would  like 
to  copy  something.  She  might  as  well  take  her 
lesson  in  the  National  Gallery  as  in  Sutton.  Be- 
sides, he  would  be  able  to  take  her  round  the  gallery 
and  explain  the  merits  of  the  pictures. 

She  was  anxious  to  get  away  from  Sutton,  and 
the  prospect  of  long  days  spent  in  London  pleased 
her,  and  on  the  following  Thursday  Harold  took  her 
up  to  London  by  the  ten  minutes  past  nine.  For 
the  first  time  she  found  something  romantic  in  that 
train.  They  drove  from  Victoria  in  a  hansom.  Mr. 
Hoskin  was  waiting  for  her  on  the  steps  of  the 
National  Gallery. 

*  I'm  so  frightened,'  she  said  ;  '  I'm  afraid  I  don't 
paint  well  enough.' 

'  You'll  get  on  all  right.  I'll  see  you  through.  This 
way.     I've  got  your  easel,  and  your  place  is  taken.' 


24  CELIBATES.  / 

They  went  up  to  the  galleries. 

•  Oh,  dear  me,  this  seems  rather  alarming  ! "  she 
exclaimed,  stopping  before  the  crowd  of  easels,  the 
paint-boxes,  the  palettes  on  the  thumbs,  the  sheaves 
of  brushes,  the  maulsticks  in  the  air.  She  glanced 
at  the  work,  seeking  eagerly  for  copies,  worse  than 
any  she  was  likely  to  perpetrate.  Mr.  Hoskin  as- 
sured her  that  there  were  many  in  the  gallery  who 
could  not  do  as  well  as  she.  And  she  experienced  a 
little  thrill  when  he  led  her  to  the  easel.  A  beauti- 
ful white  canvas  stood  on  it  ready  for  her  to  begin, 
and  on  a  chair  by  the  side  of  the  easel  was  her 
paint-box  and  brushes.  He  told  her  where  she 
would  find  him,  in  the  Turner  room,  and  that  she 
must  not  hesitate  to  come  and  fetch  him  whenever 
she  was  in  difficulties. 

*I  should  like  you  to  see  the  drawing,'  she  said, 
'before  I  begin  to  paint.' 

*I  shall  look  to  your  drawing  many  times  before 
I  allow  you  to  begin  painting.  It  will  take  you  at 
least  a  couple  of  days  to  get  it  right.  .  .  .  Don't 
be  afraid,'  he  said,  glancing  round ;  '  lots  of  them 
can't  do  as  well  as  you.  I  shall  be  back  about 
lunch  time.' 

The  picture  that  Mildred  had  elected  to  copy 
was  Reynolds's  angel  heads.  She  looked  at  the 
brown  gold  of  their  hair,  and  wondered  what  com- 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  2$ 

bination  of  umber  and  sienna  would  produce  it. 
She  studied  the  delicate  bloom  of  their  cheeks,  and 
wondered  what  mysterious  proportions  of  white, 
ochre,  and  carmine  she  would  have  to  use  to  obtain 
it.  The  bright  blue  and  grey  of  the  eyes  frightened 
her.  She  felt  sure  that  such  colour  did  not  exist 
in  the  little  tin  tubes  that  lay  in  rows  in  the  black 
japanned  box  by  her  side.  Already  she  despaired. 
But  before  she  began  to  paint  she  would  have  to 
draw  those  heavenly  faces  in  every  feature.  It 
was  more  difficult  than  sketching  from  nature.  She 
could  not  follow  the  drawing,  it  seemed  to  escape 
her.  It  did  not  exist  in  lines  which  she  could  meas- 
ure, which  she  could  follow.  It  seemed  to  have 
grown  out  of  the  canvas  rather  than  to  have  been 
placed  there.  The  faces  were  leaned  over  —  illu- 
sive foreshortenings  which  she  could  not  hope  to 
catch.  The  girl  in  front  of  her  was  making,  it 
seemed  to  Mildred,  a  perfect  copy.  There  seemed 
to  be  no  difference,  or  very  little,  between  her  work 
and  Reynolds's.  Mildred  felt  that  she  could  copy 
the  copy  easier  than  she  could  the  original. 

But  on  the  whole  she  got  on  better  than  she  had 
expected,  and  it  was  not  till  she  came  to  the  fifth 
head,  that  she  found  she  had  drawn  them  all  a  little 
too  large,  and  had  not  sufficient  space  left  on  her 
canvas.      This   was   a  disappointment.      There   was 


26  CELIBATES. 

nothing  for  it  but  to  dust  out  her  drawing  and 
begin  it  all  again.  She  grew  absorbed  in  her  work ; 
she  did  not  see  the  girl  in  front  of  her,  nor  the 
young  man  copying  opposite;  she  did  not  notice 
their  visits  to  each  other's  easels ;  she  forgot  every- 
thing in  the  passion  of  drawing.  Time  went  by  with- 
out her  perceiving  it ;  she  was  startled  by  the  sound 
of  her  master's  voice  and  looked  in  glad  surprise. 

*  How  are  you  getting  on .' '  he  said. 

'  Very  badly.     Can't  you  see  ^ ' 

*No,  not  so  badly.  Will  you  let  me  sit  down? 
Will  you  give  me  your  charcoal } ' 

'The  first  thing  is  to  get  the  heads  into  their 
places  on  the  canvas ;  don't  think  of  detail ;  but  of 
two  or  three  points,  the  crown  of  the  head,  the 
point  of  the  chin,  the  placing  of  the  ear.  If  you 
get  them  exactly  right  the  rest  will  come  easily. 
You  see  there  was  not  much  to  correct.'  He 
worked  on  the  drawing  for  some  few  minutes,  and 
then  getting  up  he  said,  'But  you'll  want  some 
lunch ;  it  is  one  o'clock.  There's  a  refreshment 
room  downstairs.  Let  me  introduce  you  to  Miss 
Laurence,'  he  said.  The  women  bowed.  'You're 
doing  an  excellent  copy.  Miss  Laurence.' 

•Praise  from  you  is  praise  indeed.' 

'I  would  give  anything  to  paint  like  that,'  said 
Mildred. 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  27 

'You've  only  just  begun  painting,'  said  Miss 
Laurence. 

'Only  a  few  months,'  said  Mildred. 

'Miss  Lawson  does  some  very  pretty  sketches 
from  nature,'  said  Mr.  Hoskin;  'this  is  her  first 
attempt  at  copying.' 

'  I  shall  never  get  those  colours,'  said  Mildred. 
'You  must  tell  me  which  you  use.' 

'Mr.  Hoskin  can  tell  you  better  than  I.  You 
can't  have  a  better  master.' 

'  Do  you  copy  much  here } '  asked  Mildred. 

'  I  paint  portraits  when  I  can  get  them  to  do ; 
when  I  can't,  I  come  here  and  copy.  .  .  .  We're 
in  the  same  boat,'  she  said,  turning  to  Mr.  Hoskin. 
'  Mr.  Hoskin  paints  beautiful  landscapes  as  long  as 
he  can  find  customers ;  when  he  can't,  he  under- 
takes to  copy  a  Turner.' 

Mildred  noticed  the  expression  that  passed  over 
her  master's  face.  It  quickly  disappeared,  and  he 
said,  '  Will  you  take  Miss  Lawson  to  the  refresh, 
ment  room.  Miss  Laurence  ^  You're  going  there 
I  suppose.' 

'Yes,  I'm  going  to  the  lunch-room,  and  shall  be 
very  glad  to  show  Miss  Lawson  the  way.' 

And,  in  company  with  quite  a  number  of  students, 
they  walked  through  the  galleries.  Mildred  noticed 
that  Miss  Laurence's  nose  was  hooked,  that  her  feet 


28  CELIBATES. 

were  small,  and  that  she  wore  brown-leather  shoes. 
Suddenly  Miss  Laurence  said  'This  way,'  and  she 
went  through  a  door  marked  '  Students  only.'  Mr. 
Hoskin  held  the  door  open  for  her,  they  went  down 
some  stone  steps  looking  on  a  courtyard.  Mr.  Hos- 
kin said,  *  I  always  think  of  Peter  De  Hooch  when 
I  go  down  these  stairs.  The  contrast  between  its 
twilight  and  the  brightness  of  the  courtyard  is  quite 
in  his  manner.' 

'And  I  always  think  how  much  I  can  afford  to 
spend  on  my  lunch,'  said  Elsie  laughing. 

The  men  turned  to  the  left  top  to  go  to  their 
room,  the  women  turned  to  the  right  to  go  to 
theirs. 

'This  way,'  said  Miss  Laurence,  and  she  opened 
a  glass  door,  and  Mildred  found  herself  in  what 
looked  like  an  eating-house  of  the  poorer  sort. 
There  was  a  counter  where  tea  and  coffee  and  rolls 
and  butter  were  sold.  Plates  of  beef  and  ham  could 
be  had  there,  too.  The  students  paid  for  their  food 
at  the  counter,  and  carried  it  to  the  tables. 

'I  can  still  afford  a  plate  of  beef,'  said  Miss  Lau- 
rence, 'but  I  don't  know  how  long  I  shall  be  able 
to  if  things  go  on  as  they've  been  going.  But  you 
don't  know  what  it  is  to  want  money,'  and  in  a  rapid 
glance  Miss  Laurence  roughly  calculated  the  price 
of  Mildred's  clothes. 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  29 

A  tall,  rather  handsome  girl,  with  dark  coarse  hair 
and  a  face  lit  up  by  round  grey  eyes,  entered. 

*  So  you  are  here,  Elsie,'  and  she  stared  at 
Mildred. 

'  Let  me  introduce  you  to  Miss  Lawson.  Miss 
Lawson,  Miss  Cissy  Clive.' 

'  I'm  as  hungry  as  a  hawk,'  Cissy  said,  and  she 
selected  the  plate  on  which  there  was  most  beef. 

'I  haven't  seen  you  here  before.  Miss  Lawson. 
Is  this  your  first  day } ' 

'  Yes,  this  is  my  first  day.' 

They  took  their  food  to  the  nearest  table  and 
Elsie  asked  Cissy  if  she  had  finished  her  copy 
of  Etty's  'Bather.'  Cissy  told  how  the  old  gentle- 
man in  charge  of  the  gallery  had  read  her  a  lect- 
ure on  the  subject.  He  did  not  like  to  see  such 
pictures  copied,  especially  by  young  women.  Copies 
of  such  pictures  attracted  visitors.  But  Cissy  had 
insisted,  and  he  had  put  her  and  the  picture  into 
a  little  room  off  the  main  gallery,  where  she  could 
pursue  her  nefarious  work  unperceived. 

The  girls  laughed  heartily.  Elsie  asked  for 
whom  Cissy  was  making  the  copy. 

'For  a  friend  of  Freddy's  —  a  very  rich  fellow. 
Herbert  is  going  to  get  him  to  give  me  a  commis- 
sion for  a  set  of  nude  figures.  Freddy  has  just 
come  back  from  Monte  Carlo.     He  has  lost  all  his 


30  CELIBATES. 

money.  .  .  .  He  says  he's  "  stony "  and  doesn't 
know  how  he'll  pull  through.' 

'  Was  he  here  this  morning  .'  * 

'He  ran  in  for  a  moment  to  see  me.  .  .  .  I'm 
dining  with  him  to-night.' 

'You're  not  at  home,  then.'' 

'No,  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  I'm  staying  with  you, 
so  be  careful  not  to  give  me  away  if  you  should 
meet  mother.  Freddy  will  be  back  this  afternoon. 
I'll  get  him  to  ask  you  if  you'll  come.' 

*  I  promised  to  go  out  with  Walter  to-night,' 

'You  can  put  him  off.  Say  that  you've  some 
work  to  finish  —  some  black  and  white.' 

'Then  he'd  want  to  come  round  to  the  studio. 
I  don't  like  to  put  him  off.' 

'As  you  like.  .  .  .  It'll  be  a  very  jolly  dinner. 
Johnny  and  Herbert  are  coming.  But  I  daresay 
Freddy'll  ask  Walter.  He'll  do  anything  I  ask 
him.' 

When  lunch  was  over  Cissy  and  Elsie  took  each 
other's  arms  and  went  upstairs  together.  Mildred 
heard  Cissy  ask  who  she  was. 

Elsie  whispered,  'A  pupil  of  Ralph's.  You 
shouldn't  have  talked  so  openly  before  her.' 

'So  his  name  is  Ralph,'  Mildred  said  to  herself, 
and  thought  that  she  liked  the  name. 


IV. 


Mildred  soon  began  to  perceive  and  to  under- 
stand the  intimate  life  of  the  galleries,  a  strange  life 
full  of  its  special  idiosyncrasies.  There  were  titled 
ladies  who  came  with  their  maids  and  commanded 
respect  from  the  keeper  of  the  gallery,  and  there 
was  a  lady  with  bright  yellow  hair  who  occasioned 
him  much  anxiety.  For  she  allowed  visitors  not 
only  to  enter  into  conversation  with  her,  but  if  they 
pleased  her  fancy  she  would  walk  about  the  galleries 
with  them  and  take  them  out  to  lunch.  There  was 
an  old  man  who  copied  Hogarth,  he  was  madly  in 
love  with  a  young  woman  who  copied  Rossetti.  But 
she  was  in  love  with  an  academy  student  who  patron- 
ised all  the  girls  and  spent  his  time  in  correcting 
their  drawings.  A  little  further  away  was  another 
old  man  who  copied  Turner.  By  a  special  permis- 
sion he  came  at  eight  o'clock,  two  hours  before  the 
galleries  were  open.  It  was  said  that  with  a  tree 
from  one  picture,  a  foreground  from  another,  a  piece 
of  distance  from  a  third,  a  sky  from  a  fourth,  he 
had  made  a  picture  which  had  taken  in  the  Acade- 

31 


32  CELIBATES. 

micians,  and  had  been  hung  in  Burlington  House 
as  an  original  work  by  Crome.  Most  of  his  work 
was  done  before  the  students  entered  the  galleries ; 
he  did  very  little  after  ten  o'clock ;  he  pottered 
round  from  easel  to  easel  chattering ;  but  he  never 
imparted  the  least  of  his  secrets.  He  knew  how  to 
evade  questions,  and  after  ten  minutes*  cross-exami- 
nation he  would  say  '  Good  morning,'  and  leave  the 
student  no  wiser  than  he  was  before.  A  legend  was 
in  circulation  that  to  imitate  Turner's  rough  sur- 
faces he  covered  his  canvas  with  plaster  of  Paris 
and  glazed  upon  it. 

The  little  life  of  the  galleries  was  alive  with 
story.  Walter  was  a  fair  young  man  with  abundant 
hair  and  conversation.  Elsie  hung  about  his  easel. 
He  covered  a  canvas  with  erratic  blots  of  colour 
and  quaint  signs,  but  his  plausive  eloquence  carried 
him  through,  and  Elsie  thought  more  highly  of  his 
talents  than  he  did  of  hers.  They  were  garrulous 
one  as  the  other,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  see  them 
strolling  about  the  galleries  criticising  and  admiring, 
until  Elsie  said  : 

'Now,  Walter,  I  must  get  back  to  my  work,  and 
don't  you  think  it  would  be  better  if  you  went  on 
with  yours .-' ' 

So  far  as  Mildred  could  see,  Elsie's  life  seemed 
from  the  beginning  to  have  been  made  up  of  paint- 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  33 

ing  and  young  men.  She  was  fond  of  Walter,  but 
she  wasn't  sure  that  she  did  not  like  Henry  best, 
and  later,  others — a  Jim,  a  Hubert,  and  a  Charles 
—  knocked  at  her  studio  door,  and  they  were  all 
admitted,  and  they  wasted  Elsie's  time  and  drank 
her  tea.  Very  often  they  addressed  their  attentions 
to  Mildred,  but  she  said  she  could  not  encourage 
them,  they  were  all  fast,  and  she  said  she  did  not 
like  fast  men. 

*I  never  knew  a  girl  like  you;  you're  not  like 
other  girls.  Did  you  never  like  a  man?  I  never 
really.     I  once  thought  you  liked  Ralph.' 

'Yes,  I  do  like  him.  But  he's  different  from  these 
men ;  he  doesn't  make  love  to  me.  I  like  him  to 
like  me,  but  I  don't  think  I  should  like  him  if  he 
made  love  to  me.* 

'  You're  an  odd  girl ;  I  don't  believe  there's  an- 
other like  you.' 

*  I  can't  think  how  you  can  like  all  these  men  to 
make  love  to  you.' 

'They  don't  all  make  love  to  me,*  Elsie  answered 
quickly.  'I  hope  you  don't  think  there's  anything 
wrong.     It  is  merely  Platonic' 

*I  should  hope  so.  But  they  waste  a  great  deal 
of  your  time.' 

'Yes,  that's  the  worst  of  it.  I  like  men,  men  are 
my  life,  I    don't   mind   admitting   it.     But    I   know 


34  CELIBATES. 

they've   interfered  with  my  painting.     That's  the 
worst  of  it.* 

Then  the  conversation  turned  on  Cissy  Clive. 
*  Cissy  is  a  funny  girl,'  Elsie  said.  *  For  nine 
months  out  of  every  twelve  she  leads  a  highly- 
respectable  life  in  West  Kensington.  But  every 
now  and  then  the  fit  takes  her,  and  she  tells  her 
mother,  who  believes  every  word  she  says,  that  she's 
staying  with  me.  In  reality,  she  takes  rooms  in 
Clarges  Street,  and  has  a  high  old  time.' 

*  I  once  heard  her  whispering  to  you  something 
about  not  giving  her  away  if  you  should  happen  to 
meet  her  mother.' 

*  I  remember,  about  Hopwood  Blunt.  He  had 
just  returned  from  Monte  Carlo.' 

'But  I  suppose  it  is  all  right.  She  likes  talking 
to  him.' 

*  I  don't  think  she  can  find  much  to  talk  about  to 
Hopwood  Blunt,'  said  Elsie,  laughing.  'Haven't 
you  seen  him.^    He  is  often  in  the  galleries.' 

*  What  does  she  say } ' 

'  She  says  he's  a  great  baby  —  that  he  amuses 
her.' 

Next  day,  Mildred  went  to  visit  Cissy  in  the  un- 
frequented gallery  where  her  'Bather'  would  not 
give  scandal  to  the  visitors.  She  had  nearly  com- 
pleted her  copy ;  it  was  excellent,  and  Mildred  could 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  35 

not  praise  it  sufficiently.  Then  the  girls  spoke  of 
Elsie  and  Walter.     Mildred  said: 

'She  seems  very  fond  of  him.' 

'And  of  how  many  others.'  Elsie  never  could 
be  true  to  a  man.  It  was  just  the  same  in  the 
Academy  schools.  And  that  studio  of  hers  ?  Have 
you  been  to  any  of  her  tea-parties?  They  turn 
down  the  lights,  don't  they?' 

As  Mildred  was  about  to  answer,  Cissy  said,  *  Oh, 
here's  Freddy.' 

Mr.  Hopwood  Blunt  was  tall  and  fair,  a  brawny 
young  Englishman  still,  though  the  champagne  of 
fashionable  restaurants  and  racecourses  was  begin- 
ning to  show  itself  in  a  slight  puffiness  in  his  hand- 
some florid  cheeks.  He  shook  hands  carelessly  with 
Miss  Clive,  whom  he  called  Cis,  and  declared  him- 
self dead  beat.  She  hastened  to  hand  him  her 
chair. 

*  I  know  what's  the  matter  with  you,'  she  said, 
'too  much  champagne  last  night  at  the  Caf6 
Royal' 

*  Wrong  again.  We  weren't  at  the  Caf6  Royal, 
we  dined  at  the  Bristol.  Don't  like  the  place  ;  give 
me  the  good  old  Caf6  Savoy.' 

'  How  many  bottles  ? ' 

*  Don't  know  ;  know  that  I  didn't  drink  my  share. 
It  was  something  I  had  after.' 


36  CELIBATES. 

Then  followed  an  account  of  the  company  and  the 
dinner.  The  conversation  was  carried  on  in  allu- 
sions, and  Mildred  heard  something  about  Tommy's 
girl  and  a  horse  that  was  worth  backing  at  Kempton. 
At  last  it  occurred  to  Cissy  to  introduce  Mildred. 
Mr.  Hop  wood  Blunt  made  a  faint  pretence  of  rising 
from  his  chair,  and  the  conversation  turned  on  the 
'  Bather." 

*I  think  you  ought  to  make  her  a  little  better 
looking.  What  do  you  say,  Miss  Lawson  ?  Cis  is 
painting  that  picture  for  a  smoking-room,  and  in 
the  smoking-room  we  like  pretty  girls.' 

He  thought  that  they  ought  to  see  a  little  more 
of  the  lady's  face ;  and  he  did  not  approve  of  the 
drapery.  Cissy  argued  that  she  could  not  alter 
Etty's  composition  ;  she  reproved  him  for  his  face- 
tiousness,  and  was  visibly  annoyed  at  the  glances 
he  bestowed  on  Mildred.  A  moment  after  Ralph 
appeared. 

*  Don't  let  me  disturb  you,'  he  said,  *  I  did  not 
know  where  you  were.  Miss  Lawson,  that  was  all. 
I  thought  you  might  like  me  to  see  how  you're 
getting  on.' 

Ralph  and  Mildred  walked  through  two  galleries 
in  silence.  Elsie  had  gone  out  to  lunch  with  Wal- 
ter ;  the  old  lady  with  the  grey  ringlets,  who  copied 
Gainsborough's   'Watering    Place/    was    downstairs 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  37 

having  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  roll ;  the  cripple  leaned 
on  his  crutch,  and  compared  his  drawing  of  Mrs. 
Siddons's  nose  with  Gainsborough's.  Ralph  waited 
till  he  hopped  away,  and  Mildred  was  grateful  to  him 
for  the  delay ;  she  did  not  care  for  her  neighbours 
to  see   what  work  her  master  did  on  her  picture. 

'  You've  got  the  background  wrong,'  he  said,  tak- 
ing off  a  yellowish  grey  with  the  knife.  '  The  cloud 
in  the  left-hand  corner  is  the  deepest  dark  you  have 
in  the  picture,*  and  he  prepared  a  tone,  '  What  a 
lovely  quality  Reynolds  has  got  into  the  sky !  .  .  . 
This  face  is  not  sufficiently  foreshortened.  Too 
long  from  the  nose  to  the  chin,'  he  said,  taking  off 
an  eighth  of  an  inch.  Then  the  mouth  had  to  be 
raised.  Mildred  watched,  nervous  with  apprehen- 
sion lest  Elsie  or  the  old  lady  or  the  cripple  should 
return  and  interrupt  him. 

'There,  it  is  better  now,'  he  said,  surveying  the 
picture,  his  head  on  one  side. 

'I  should  think  it  was,'  she  answered  enthusias- 
tically. *  I  shall  be  able  to  get  on  now.  I  could  not 
get  the  drawing  of  that  face  right.  And  the  sky  — 
what  a  difference !  I  like  it  as  well  as  the  original. 
It's  quite  as  good.' 

Ralph  laughed,  and  they  walked  through  the  gal- 
leries. The  question,  of  course,  arose,  which  was 
the  greater,  the  Turner  or  the  Claude  ? 


38  CELIBATES. 

Mildred  thought  that  she  liked  the  Claude. 

*  One  is  romance,  the  other  is  common  sense.' 

'  If  the  Turner  is  romance,  I  wonder  I  don't  prefer 
it  to  the  Claude.     I  love  romance.' 

'School-girl  romance,  very  likely.'  Mildred  didn't 
answer  and,  without  noticing  her,  Ralph  continued, 
*I  like  Turner  best  in  the  grey  and  English  man- 
ner :  that  picture,  for  instance,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  doorway.  How  much  simpler,  how  much  more 
original,  how  much  more  beautiful.  That  grey  and 
yellow  sky,  the  delicacy  of  the  purple  in  the  clouds. 
But  even  in  classical  landscape  Turner  did  better 
than  Claude  —  Turner  created  —  all  that  architecture 
is  dreamed;  Claude  copied  his.' 

At  the  end  of  each  little  sentence  he  stared  at 
Mildred,  half  ashamed  at  having  expressed  himself 
so  badly,  half  surprised  at  having  expressed  himself 
so  well.     Anxious  to  draw  him  out,  she  said : 

'  But  the  picture  you  admire  is  merely  a  strip 
of  sea  with  some  fishing-boats.  I've  seen  it  a  hun- 
dred times  before  —  at  Brighton,  at  Westgate,  at 
whatever  seaside  place  we  go  to,  just  like  that,  only 
not  quite  so  dark.' 

'  Yes,  just  like  that,  only  not  quite  so  dark.  That 
"  not  quite  so  dark  "  makes  the  difference.  Turner 
didn't  copy,  he  transposed  what  he  saw.  Trans- 
posed what  he  saw,'  he  repeated.     •!  don't  explain 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  39 

myself  very  well,  I  don't  know  if  you  understand. 
But  what  I  mean  is  that  the  more  realistic  you  are 
the  better ;  so  long  as  you  transpose,  there  must 
always  be  a  transposition  of  tones.' 

Mildred  admitted  that  she  did  not  quite  under- 
stand. Ralph  stammered,  and  relinquished  the  at- 
tempt to  explain.  They  walked  in  silence  until 
they  came  to  the  Rembrandts  —  the  portrait  of  the 
painter  as  a  young  man  and  the  portrait  of  the  *  Jew 
Merchant.'  Mildred  preferred  the  portrait  of  the 
young  man.  'But  not  because  it's  a  young  man,' 
she  pleaded,  *  but  because  it  is,  it  is ' 

*  Compared  with  the  "  Jew  Merchant "  it  is  like  a 
coloured  photograph  .  .  .  Look  at  him,  he  rises  up 
grand  and  mysterious  as  a  pyramid,  the  other  is  as 
insignificant  as  life.  Look  at  the  Jew's  face,  it  is 
done  with  one  tint ;  a  synthesis,  a  dark  red,  and 
the  face  is  as  it  were  made  out  of  nothing  —  hardly 
anything,  and  yet  everything  is  said  .  .  .  You  can't 
say  where  the  picture  begins  or  ends,  the  Jew  surges 
out  of  the  darkness  like  a  vision.  Look  at  his  robe, 
a  few  folds,  that  is  all,  and  yet  he's  completely 
dressed,  and  his  hand,  how  large,  how  great  .  .  . 
Don't  you  see,  don't  you  understand  ? ' 

♦I  think  I  do,'  Mildred  replied  a  little  wistfully, 
and  she  cast  a  last  look  on  the  young  man  whom 
she  must  admire  no  more.     Ralph  opened  the  door 


40 


CEUBATES. 


marked  students  only,  and  they  went  down  the  stone 
steps.  When  they  came  to  where  the  men  and 
women  separated  for  their  different  rooms,  Mildred 
asked  Ralph  if  he  were  going  out  to  lunch?  He 
hesitated,  and  then  answered  that  it  took  too  long  to 
go  to  a  restaurant.  Mildred  guessed  by  his  manner 
that  he  had  no  money. 

'There's  no  place  in  the  gallery  where  we  can  get 
lunch  —  you  women  are  luckier  than  us  men.  What 
do  they  give  you  in  your  room } ' 

*  You  mean  in  the  way  of  meat }  Cold  meat,  beef 
and  ham,  pork  pies.  But  I  don't  care  for  meat,  I 
never  touch  it.' 

*  What  do  you  eat  "i ' 

'There  are  some  nice  cakes.  I'll  go  and  get 
some  ;  we'll  share  them.' 

*  No,  no,  I  really  am  not  hungry,  much  obliged.' 
'Oh,  do  let  me  go  and  get  some  cakes,  it'll  be 

such  fun,  and  so  much  nicer  than  sitting  with  a  lot 
of  women  in  that  little  room.' 

They  shared  their  cakes,  walking  up  and  down 
the  great  stone  passages,  and  this  was  the  beginning 
of  their  intimacy.  On  the  following  week  she  wrote 
to  say  what  train  she  was  coming  up  by ;  he  met 
her  at  the  station,  and  they  went  together  to  the 
National  Gallery.  But  their  way  led  through  St. 
James'  Park  ;  they  lingered  there,  and,  as  the  season 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  4I 

advanced,  their  lingerings  in  the  park  grew  longer 
and  longer. 

*  What  a  pretty  park  this  is.  It  always  seems  to 
me  like  a  lady's  boudoir,  or  what  I  imagine  a  lady's 
boudoir  must  be  like.' 

'Have  you  never  seen  a  lady's  boudoir?' 

'  No ;  I  don't  think  I  have.  I've  never  been  in 
what  you  call  society.  I  had  to  make  my  living 
ever  since  I  was  sixteen.  My  father  was  a  small 
tradesman  in  Brixton.  When  I  was  sixteen  I  had 
to  make  my  own  living.  I  used  to  draw  in  the 
illustrated  papers.  I  began  by  making  two  pounds 
a  week.  Then,  as  I  got  on,  I  used  to  live  as  much 
as  possible  in  the  country.  You  can't  paint  land- 
scapes in  London.' 

'You  must  have  had  a  hard  time.' 

'  I  suppose  I  had.  It  was  all  right  as  long  as  I 
kept  to  my  newspaper  work.  But  I  was  ambitious, 
and  wanted  to  paint  in  oils ;  but  I  never  had  a 
hundred  pounds  in  front  of  me.  I  could  only  get 
away  for  a  fortnight  or  a  month  at  a  time.  Then, 
as  things  got  better,  I  had  to  help  my  family.  My 
father  died,  and  I  had  to  look  after  my  mother.' 

Mildred  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him 
affectionately. 

'  I  think  I  could  have  done  something  if  I  had  had 
a  fair  chance.' 


42  CELIBATES. 

•  Done  something  ?  But  you  have  done  some- 
thing. Have  you  forgotten  what  the  Spectator 
said  of  your  farmyard  ? ' 

'  That's  nothing.  If  I  hadn't  to  think  of  getting 
my  living  I  could  do  better  than  that.  Oil  painting 
is  the  easiest  material  of  all  until  you  come  to 
a  certain  point ;  after  that  point,  when  you  begin 
to  think  of  quality  and  transparency,  it  is  most 
difficult.' 

They  were  standing  on  the  bridge.  The  water 
below  them  was  full  of  ducks.  The  birds  balanced 
themselves  like  little  boats  on  the  waves,  and  Mil- 
dred thought  of  her  five  hundred  a  year  and  the 
pleasure  it  would  be  to  help  Ralph  to  paint  the 
pictures  he  wanted  to  paint.  She  imagined  him 
a  great  artist ;  his  success  would  be  her  doing. 
At  that  same  moment  he  was  thinking  that  there 
never  had  been  any  pleasure  in  his  life ;  and  Mil- 
dred —  her  hat,  her  expensive  dress,  her  sunshade  — 
seemed  in  such  bitter  contrast  to  himself,  to  his  own 
life,  that  he  could  not  hide  a  natural  irritation. 

*  Your  life  has  been  all  pleasure,'  he  said,  glancing 
at  her  disdainfully. 

•No,  indeed,  it  has  not.  My  life  has  been  mis- 
erable enough.  We  are  rich,  it  is  true,  but  our 
riches  have  never  brought  me  happiness.  The  best 
time  I've  had  has  been  since  I  met  you.' 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  43 

'  Is  that  true  ?     I  wonder  if  that's  true.* 

Their  eyes  met  and  she  said  hastily,  with  seeming 
desire  to  change  the  subject : 

'So  you're  a  Londoner  born  and  bred,  and  yet 
you'd  Hke  to  live  in  the  country.* 

•Only  for  my  painting.  I  love  London,  but  you 
can't  paint  landscapes  in  London.' 

'I  wonder  why  not.  You  said  you  loved  this 
park.  There's  nothing  more  beautiful  in  the  coun- 
try —  those  trees,  this  quiet,  misty  lake ;  it  is  exqui- 
site, and  yet  I  suppose  it  wouldn't  make  a  picture.' 

*  I  don't  know.  I've  often  thought  of  trying  to  do 
something  with  it.  But  what's  beautiful  to  look  at 
doesn't  do  well  in  a  picture.  The  hills  and  dales  in 
the  Green  Park  are  perfect  —  their  artificiality  is 
their  beauty.     There's  one  bit  that  I  like  especially.' 

*  Which  is  that  ? ' 

*  The  bit  by  Buckingham  Palace  where  the  sheep 
feed ;  the  trees  there  are  beautiful,  large  spreading 
trees,  and  they  give  the  place  a  false  air  of  Arcady. 
But  in  a  picture  it  wouldn't  do.' 

'Why.?' 

'  I  can't  say.  I  don't  think  it  would  mean  much 
if  it  were  painted.' 

'  You  couldn't  have  a  shepherd,  or  if  you  had  he'd 
have  to  be  cross-gartered,  and  his  lady-love  in 
flowery  silk  would  have  to  be  sitting  on  a  bank, 


44 


CELIBATES. 


and  there  is  not  a  bank  there,  you'd  have  to  invent 
one.* 

*  That's  it ;  the  park  is  eighteenth  century,  a  com- 
edy of  the  restoration.' 

'  But  why  couldn't  you  paint  that  ? '  said  Mildred, 
pointing  to  where  a  beautiful  building  passed  across 
the  vista. 

*  I  suppose  one  ought  to  be  able  to.  The  turrets 
in  the  distance  are  fine.  But  no,  it  wouldn't  make 
a  picture.  The  landscape  painter  never  will  be  able 
to  do  much  with  London.  He'll  have  to  live  in  the 
country,  and  if  he  can't  afiford  to  do  that  he'd  better 
turn  it  up.' 

*  Elsie  Laurence  and  Cissy  Clive  are  going  to 
France  soon.  They  say  that's  the  only  place  to 
study.  In  the  summer  they're  going  to  a  place 
called  Barbizon,  near  Fontainebleau.  I  was  thinking 
of  going  with  them.' 

*  Were  you  ?  I  wish  I  were  going.  Especially  to 
Barbizon.     The  country  would  suit  me.' 

Mildred  longed  to  say,  *  I  shall  be  glad  if  you'll  let 
me  lend  you  the  money,'  but  she  didn't  dare.  At 
the  end  of  a  long  silence,  Ralph  said : 

'I  think  we'd  better  be  going  on.  It  must  be 
nearly  ten.' 


V. 


As  the  spring  advanced  they  spent  more  and  more 
time  in  the  park.  They  learnt  to  know  it  in  its 
slightest  aspects ;  they  anticipated  each  bend  of  the 
lake's  bank ;  they  looked  out  for  the  tall  trees  at 
the  end  of  the  island,  and  often  thought  of  the  tree 
that  leaned  until  its  lower  leaves  swept  the  water's 
edge.  Close  to  this  tree  was  their  favourite  seat. 
And,  as  they  sat  by  the  water's  edge  in  the  vaporous 
afternoons,  the  park  seemed  part  and  parcel  of  their 
love  of  each  other ;  it  was  their  refuge  ;  it  was  only 
there  that  they  were  alone ;  the  park  was  a  relief 
from  the  promiscuity  of  the  galleries.  In  the  park 
they  could  talk  without  fear  of  being  overheard,  and 
they  took  interest  in  the  changes  that  spring  was 
effecting  in  this  beautiful  friendly  nature  —  their 
friend  and  their  accomplice. 

'The  park  is  greener  than  it  was  yesterday,'  he 
said.  *  Look  at  that  tree !  How  bright  the  green, 
and  how  strange  it  seems  amid  all  the  blackness.' 

'And  that  rose  cloud  and  the  reflection  of  the 
evening  in  the  lake,  how  tranquil.' 

45 


46  CELIBATES. 

'  And  that  great  block  of  buildings,  Queen  Anne's 
Mansions,  is  it  not  beautiful  in  the  blue  atmos- 
phere? In  London  the  ugliest  things  are  beautiful 
in  the  evening.  No  city  has  so  pictorial  an  at- 
mosphere.' 

'Not  Paris.?' 

'I've  not  seen  Paris;  I've  never  been  out  of 
England.' 

*  Then  you're  speaking  of  things  you  haven't 
seen.' 

'  Of  things  that  I've  only  imagined.' 

The  conversation  paused  a  moment,  and  then 
Ralph  said : 

'  Are  you  still  thinking  of  going  to  Paris  with 
Elsie  Laurence  and  Cissy  Clive  ?  * 

*I  think  so.  Paris  is  the  only  place  one  can 
study  art,  so  they  say.' 

'  You'll  be  away  a  long  while  —  several  months .? ' 

'It  wouldn't  be  much  good  going  if  I  didn't  stop 
some  time,  six  or  seven  months,  would  it  ? ' 

'I  suppose  not.' 

Mildred  raised  her  eyes  cautiously  and  looked  at 
him.  His  eyes  were  averted.  He  was  looking 
where  some  ducks  were  swimming.  They  came 
towards  the  bank  slowly  —  a  drake  and  two  ducks. 
A  third  duck  paddled  aimlessly  about  at  some  little 
distance.     There  was  a  slight  mist  on  the  water. 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  47 

'If  you  go  to  Paris  I  hope  I  may  write  to  you. 
Send  me  your  drawings  to  correct.  Any  advice 
I  can  give  you  is  at  your  service ;  I  shall  only  be 
too  pleased.' 

'Oh,  yes,  I  hope  you  will  write  to  me.  I  shall 
be  so  glad  to  hear  from  you.  I  shall  be  lonely  all 
that  time  away  from  home.' 

'And  you'll  write  to  me?' 

'  Of  course.  And  if  I  write  to  you,  you  won't 
misunderstand  ? ' 

Ralph  looked  up  surprised. 

*  I  mean,  if  I  write  affectionately  you  won't  mis- 
understand.    It  will  be  because ' 

'Because  you  feel  lonely.^' 

*  Partly.     But  you  don't  misunderstand,  do  you } ' 
They  watched  the  ducks  in  silence.     At  last  Mil- 
dred  said,   'That   duck  wanders  about   by  herself; 
why  doesn't  she  join  the  others?' 

'  Perhaps  she  can't  find  a  drake.' 

'Perhaps  she  prefers  to  be  alone.' 

'We  shall  see  —  the  drake  is  going  to  her.* 

*  She  is  going  away  from  him.  She  doesn't  want 
him.' 

'She's  jealous  of  the  others.  If  there  were  no 
other  she  would.' 

'There  are  always  others.' 
'Do  you  think  so?' 


48  CELIBATES. 

Mildred  did  not  answer.  Ralph  waited  a  few 
moments,  then  he  said : 

'  So  you're  going  away  for  six  or  seven  months ; 
the  time  will  seem  very  long  while  you're  away.' 

Again  Mildred  was  tempted  to  ask  him  if  she 
might  lend  him  the  money  to  go  to  Paris.  She 
raised  her  eyes  to  his  (he  wondered  what  was  pass- 
ing in  her  mind),  but  he  did  not  find  courage  to 
speak  until  some  days  later.  He  had  asked  her 
to  come  to  his  studio  to  see  a  picture  he  had 
begun.  It  was  nearly  six  o'clock  ;  Mildred  had  been 
there  nearly  an  hour;  the  composition  had  been 
exhaustively  admired ;  but  something  still  unsaid 
seemed  to  float  in  the  air,  and  every  moment  that 
something  seemed  to  grow  more  imminent. 

'  You  are  decided  to  go  to  France.  When  do  you 
leave .? ' 

'  Some  time  next  week.     The  day  is  not  yet  fixed.* 
'Elsie  Laurence  and  Cissy  Clive  are  going?' 
'Yes.  .  .  .     Why  don't  you  come  too?* 
*I  wish  I  could.     I  can't.     I  have  no  money.' 
'But   I   can   lend   you  what   you  want.      I    have 
more  than  I  require.     Let  me  lend  you  a  hundred 
pounds.     Do.' 

Ralph  smiled  through  his  red  moustache,  and 
his  grey  gentle  eyes  smiled  too,  a  melancholy  little 
smile  that  passed  quickly, 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  49 

*  It  is  very  kind  of  you.  But  it  would  be  impos- 
sible for  me  to  borrow  money  from  you.  Even  if 
I  had  the  money,  I  could  hardly  go  with  you.' 

*  Why  not,  there's  a  party.  Walter  is  going,  and 
Hopwood  Blunt  is  going.     I'm  the  fifth  wheel.' 

Ralph  was  about  to  say  something,  but  he 
checked  himself;  he  never  spoke  ill  of  any  one. 
So,  putting  his  criticism  of  her  companions  aside, 
he  said: 

'Only  under  one  condition  could  I  go  abroad 
with  you.     You  know,  Mildred,  I  love  you.' 

An  expression  of  pleasure  came  upon  her  face, 
and,  seeing  it,  he  threw  his  arms  out  to  draw  her 
closer.     She  drew  away. 

'You  shrink  from  me.  ...  I  suppose  I'm  too 
rough.    You  could  never  care  for  me.' 

'Yes,  indeed,  Ralph,  I  do  care  for  you.  I  like 
you  very  much  indeed,  but  not  like  that.' 

'You  could  not  like  me  enough  to  marry  me.' 

'I  don't  think  I  could  marry  any  one.' 

'Why  not.?' 

'I  don't  know.* 

*Do  you  care  for  any  one  else.'* 

'No,  indeed  I  don't.  I  like  you  very  much.  I 
want  you  to  be  my  friend.  .  .  .  But  you  don't 
understand.  Men  never  do.  I  suppose  affection 
would  not  satisfy  you.' 


50  CELIBATES. 

•But  you  could  not  marry  me?* 

'I'd  sooner  marry  you   than  any  one.     But ' 

'But  what?' 

Mildred  told  the  story  of  her  engagement,  and 
how  in  the  end  she  had  been  forced  to  break  it 
off. 

*And  you  think  if  you  engaged  yourself  to  me 
it  might  end  in  the  same  way?' 

*Yes.  And  I  would  not  cause  you  pain.  For- 
give me.' 

'But  if  you  never  intend  to  marry,  what  do  you 
intend  to  do?' 

'There  are  other  things  to  do  surely.* 

'  What  ? ' 

'There's  art.' 

'Art!' 

'You  think  I  shall  not  succeed  with  my 
painting  ? ' 

No.  I  did  not  mean  that.  I  hope  you  will. 
But  painting  is  very  difficult.  I've  found  it  so.  It 
seems  hopeless.' 

'  You  think  I  shall  be  a  failure  ?  You  think  that 
I'd  better  remain  at  home  and  marry  than  go  to 
France  and  study  ? ' 

'  It's  impossible  to  say  who  will  succeed.  I  only 
know  it  is  very  difficult  —  too  difficult  for  me.  .  .  . 
Women  never  have  succeeded  in  painting.' 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  J I 

'Some  have,  to  a  certain  extent.' 

*  But  you're  not  angry,  offended  at  my  having 
spoken  ? ' 

*No;  I  hope  we  shall  always  be  friends.  You 
know  that  I  like  you  very  much.' 

'Then  why  not,  why  not  be  engaged.'  It  will 
give  you  time  to  consider,  to  find  out  if  you  could.' 

'But,  you  see,  I've  broken  off  one  engagement, 
so  that  I  might  be  free  to  devote  myself  to 
painting.' 

'But  that  man  was  not  congenial  to  you.  He 
was  not  an  artist,  he  would  have  opposed  your 
painting;  you'd  have  had  to  give  up  painting  if 
you  had  married  him.  But  I'm  quite  different.  I 
should  help  and  encourage  you  in  your  art.  All 
you  know  I  have  taught  you.  I  could  teach  you  a 
great  deal  more.     Mildred ' 

*  Do  you  think  that  you  could  ? ' 
'Yes;  will  you  let  me  try.?* 

'But,  you  see,  I'm  going  away.  Shall  I  see  you 
again  before  I  go?' 

*  When  you  like.     When .'    To-morrow  } ' 

*  To-morrow  would  be  nice.' 

*  Where — in  the  National?' 

'No,  in  the  park.  It  will  be  nicer  in  the  park. 
Then  about  eleven.' 

At  five  minutes  past  eleven  he  saw  her  coming 


52 


CELIBATES. 


through  the  trees,  and  she  signed  to  him  with  a 
little  movement  of  her  parasol,  which  was  particu- 
larly charming,  and  which  seemed  to  him  to  ex- 
press her.  They  walked  from  the  bridge  along  the 
western  bank;  the  trees  were  prettier  there,  and 
from  their  favourite  seat  they  saw  the  morning 
light  silver  the  water,  the  light  mist  evaporate, 
and  the  trees  on  the  other  bank  emerge  from 
vague  masses  into  individualities  of  trunk  and 
bough.  The  day  was  warm,  though  there  was 
little  sun,  and  the  park  swung  a  great  mass  of 
greenery  under  a  soft,  grey  sky. 

The  drake  and  the  two  ducks  came  swimming 
towards  them  —  the  drake,  of  course,  in  the  middle, 
looking  very  handsome  and  pleased,  and  at  a  little 
distance  the  third  duck  pursued  her  rejected  and 
disconsolate  courtship.  Whenever  she  approached 
too  near,  the  drake  rushed  at  her  with  open  beak, 
and  drove  her  back.  Then  she  affected  not  to  know 
where  she  was  going,  wandering  in  an  aimless, 
absent-minded  fashion,  getting  near  and  nearer  her 
recalcitrant  drake.  But  these  ruses  were  wasted 
upon  him ;  he  saw  through  them  all,  and  at  last  he 
attacked  the  poor  broken-hearted  duck  so  deter- 
minedly that  she  was  obliged  to  seek  safety  in  flight. 
And  the  entire  while  of  the  little  aquatic  comedy 
the  wisdom  of  an  engagement  had  been  discussed 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  53 

between  Ralph  and  Mildred.  She  had  consented. 
But  her  promise  had  not  convinced  Ralph,  and  he 
said,  referring  to  the  duck  which  they  had  both 
been  watching : 

*  I  shall  dangle  round  you  for  a  time,  and  when  I 
come  too  near  you'll  chase  me  away  until  at  last 
you'll  make  up  your  mind  that  you  can  stand  it  no 
longer,  and  will  refuse  ever  to  see  me  again.' 


VI. 

She  had  had  a  rough  passage  t  sea  sickness  stil\ 
haunted  in  her,  she  was  pale  with  fatigue,  and  her 
eyes  longed  for  sleep.  But  Elsie  and  Cissy  were 
coming  to  take  her  to  the  studio  at  ten  o'clock.  So 
she  asked  to  be  called  at  nine,  and  she  got  up  when 
she  was  called. 

The  gilt  clock  was  striking  ten  in  the  empty  draw- 
ing-room when  she  entered.  *I  didn't  expect  her 
to  get  up  at  six  to  receive  me,  but  she  might  be  up 
at  ten,  I  think.  However,  it  doesn't  much  matter. 
I  suppose  she's  looking  after  her  sick  husband. 
.  .  .  Well,  I  don't  think  much  of  her  drawing- 
room.  Red  plush  sofas  and  chairs.  It  is  just  like  an 
hotel,  and  the  street  is  dingy  enough,'  thought  Mil- 
dred, as  she  pulled  one  of  the  narrow  lace  curtains 
aside :  I  don't  think  much  of  Paris.  But  it  doesn't 
matter,  I  shall  be  at  the  studio  nearly  all  day.' 

A  moment  after  Mrs.  Fargus  entered.  'I'm  so 
sorry,'  she  said,  *  I  wasn't  up  to  receive  you,  but ' 

*  I  didn't  expect  you  to  get  up  at  five,  which  you 
would  have  had  to  do.    I  was  here  soon  after  six.' 

54 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  55 

Mrs.  Fargus  asked  her  if  she  had  had  a  good 
passage,  if  she  felt  fatigued,  and  what  she  thought 
of  Paris.     And  then  the  conversation  dropped, 

'  She's  a  good  little  soul,'  thought  Mildred,  *  even 
though  she  does  dress  shabbily.  It  is  pure  kindness 
of  her  to  have  me  here ;  she  doesn't  want  the  three 
pounds  a  week  I  pay  her.  But  I  had  to  pay  some- 
thing. I  couldn't  sponge  on  her  hospitality  for  six 
months  ...  I  wonder  she  doesn't  say  something. 
I  suppose  I  must.' 

*  You  know  it  is  very  kind  of  you  to  have  me  here. 
I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you.' 

Mrs.  Fargus'  thoughts  seemed  on  their  way  back 
from  a  thousand  miles.  '  From  the  depths  of  Comte,' 
thought  Mildred. 

*  My  dear,  you  wanted  to  study.' 

*  Yes,  but  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you  I  should  never 
have  got  the  chance.  As  it  was  Harold  did  his 
best  to  keep  me.  He  said  he'd  have  to  get  a  house- 
keeper, and  it  would  put  him  to  a  great  deal  of 
inconvenience :  men  are  so  selfish.  He'd  like  me 
to  keep  house  for  him  always.' 

'We're  all  selfish,  Mildred.  Men  aren't  worse 
than  women,  only  it  takes  another  form.  We  only 
recognise  selfishness  when  it  takes  a  form  different 
from  our  practice.' 

Mildred  listened  intently,  but  Mrs.  Fargus  said 


56  CELIBATES. 

no  more,  and  the  conversation  seemed  as  if  it  were 
going  to  drop.  Suddenly,  to  Mildred's  surprise, 
Mrs.  Fargus  said : 

'When  do  you  propose  to  begin  work.?' 

'This  morning.  Elsie  Laurence  and  Cissy  Clive 
are  coming  to  take  me  to  the  studio.  I'm  expect- 
ing them  every  moment.     They're  late.* 

'They  know  the  studio  they're  taking  you  to,  I 
suppose } ' 

'  Oh  yes,  they've  worked  there  before  .  .  .  The 
question  is  whether  I  ought  to  work  in  the  men's 
studio,  or  if  it  would  be  better,  safer,  to  join  the 
ladies'  class.' 

'  What  does  Miss  Laurence  say  ? ' 

'  Oh,  Elsie  and  Cissy  are  going  to  work  with  the 
men.     They  wouldn't  work  with  a  lot  of  women.' 

'Why.?' 

'  Because  they  like  being  with  men  in  the  first 
place.* 

'Oh!     But   you.?' 

'No,  I  don't  mind,  and  yet  I  don't  think  I 
should  care  to  be  cooped  up  all  day  with  a  lot  of 
women.' 

'You  mean  that  there  would  be  more  emulation 
in  a  mixed  class  .? ' 

'  Yes ;  and  Elsie  says  it  is  better  to  work  in  the 
men's  studio.     There  are  cleverer  pupils  there  than 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  57 

in  the  ladies'  studio,  and  one  learns  as  much  from 
one's  neighbours  as  from  the  professor;  more.* 

*Are  you  sure  of  that?  Do  you  not  think  that 
we  are  all  far  too  ready  to  assume  that  whatever 
men  do  is  the  best  ? ' 

*I  suppose  we  are.* 

*  Men  kept  us  uneducated  till  a  hundred  years 
ago ;  we  are  only  gaining  our  rights  inch  by  inch, 
prejudice  is  only  being  overcome  very  slowly,  and 
whenever  women  have  had  equal,  or  nearly  equal, 
advantages  they  have  proved  themselves  equal  or 
superior  to  men.  Women's  inferiority  in  physical 
strength  is  immaterial,  for,  as  mankind  grows  more 
civilised,  force  will  be  found  in  the  brain  and  not 
in  the  muscles.* 

Mrs.  Fargus  was  now  fairly  afloat  on  her  favour- 
ite theme,  viz.,  if  men  were  kind  to  women,  their 
kindness  was  worse  than  their  cruelty  —  it  was 
demoralising. 

Eventually  the  conversation  returned  whence  it 
had  started,  and  Mrs.  Fargus  said: 

'Then  why  do  you  hesitate.?  What  is  the  objec- 
tion to  the  men's  studio  ? ' 

'  I  do  not  know  that  there  is  any  particular  objec- 
tion, nothing  that  I  ought  to  let  stand  in  the  way 
of  my  studies.  It  was  only  something  that  Elsie 
and  Cissy  said.     They  said  the  men's  conversation 


58  CELIBATES. 

wasn't  always  very  nice.  But  they  weren't  sure, 
for  they  understand  French  hardly  at  all  —  they 
may  have  been  mistaken.  But  if  the  conversation 
were  coarse  it  would  be  very  unpleasant  for  me; 
the  students  would  know  that  I  understood  .  .  . 
Then  there's  the  model,  there's  that  to  be  got  over. 
But  Elsie  and  Cissy  say  that  the  model's  nothing; 
no  more  than  a  statue.' 

*  The  model  is  undraped  ? ' 
'Oh,  yes.* 

'Really  Mildred * 

'That's  the  disadvantage  of  being  a  girl.  Preju- 
dice closes  the  opportunity  of  study  to  one.* 

Mrs.  Fargus  did  not  speak  for  a  long  time.  At 
last  she  said  : 

'Of  course,  Mildred,  you  must  consult  your  own 
feeling ;  if  it's  the  custom,  if  it's  necessary  —  Your 
vocation  is  of  course  everything.' 

Then  it  was  Mildred's  turn  to  pause  before  an- 
swering.    At  last  she  said : 

'It  does  seem  rather  —  well,  disgusting,  but  if  it 
is  necessary  for  one's  art.  In  a  way  I'd  as  soon 
work  in  the  ladies'  studio.' 

*  I  daresay  you  derive  just  as  much  advantage.* 

'  Do  you  think  so }  It's  from  the  students  round 
one  that  one  learns,  and  there's  no  use  coming  to 
Paris  if  one  doesn't  make  the  most  of  one's  oppor- 
tunities.' 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  59 

*  You  might  give  the  ladies'  studio  a  trial,  and 
if  you  didn't  find  you  were  getting  on  you  could 
join  the  men's.' 

*  After  having  wasted  three  months  !  As  you  say 
my  vocation  is  everything.  It  would  be  useless 
for  me  to  think  of  taking  up  painting  as  a  pro- 
fession, if  I  did  not  work  in  the  men's  studio.' 

'But  are  you  going  there.'' 

'  I  can't  make  up  my  mind.  You  have  frightened 
me,  you've  put  me  off  it,' 

*I  think  I  hardly  offered  an  opinion.' 

'  Perhaps  Harold  would  not  like  me  to  go  there.' 

'You  might  write  to  him.     Yes,  write  to  him.' 

'Write  to  Harold  about  such  a  thing — the  most 
conventional  man  in  the  world ! ' 

At  that  moment  the  servant  announced  Elsie 
and  Cissy.  They  wore  their  best  dresses  and  were 
clearly  atingle  with  desire  of  conversation  and 
Paris. 

'We're  a  little  late,  aren't  we,  dear.  We're  so 
sorry,'  said  Elsie. 

'How  do  you  do,  dear,'  said  Cissy, 

Mildred  introduced  her  friends.  They  bowed, 
and  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Fargus,  but  were  at 
no  pains  to  conceal  their  indifference  to  the  drab 
and  dowdy  little  woman  in  the  soiled  sage  green, 
and    the    glimmering   spectacles.      '  What    a    com- 


Go  CELIBATES. 

plexion,'  whispered  Elsie  the  moment  they  were 
outside  the  door.  '  What's  her  husband  like  ? ' 
asked  Cissy  as  they  descended  the  first  flight. 
Mildred  answered  that  Mr.  Fargus  suffered  from 
asthma,  and  hoped  no  further  questions  would  be 
asked,  so  happy  was  she  in  the  sense  of  real  eman- 
cipation from  the  bondage  of  home — so  delighted 
was  she  in  the  spectacle  of  the  great  boulevard, 
now  radiant  with  spring  sunlight. 

She  wondered  at  the  large  blue  cravats  of  idlers, 
sitting  in  cafes  freshly  strewn  with  bright  clean 
sand,  at  the  aprons  of  the  waiters,  — the  waiters 
were  now  pouring  out  green  absinthe,  —  at  the 
little  shop  girls  in  tight  black  dresses  and  frizzled 
hair,  passing  three  together  arm  in  arm  ;  all  the 
boulevard  amused  and  interested  Mildred.  It 
looked  so  different,  she  said,  from  what  it  had 
done  four  hours  before.  'But  none  of  us  look  our 
best  at  six  in  the  morning,'  she  added  laughing, 
and  her  friends  laughed  too.  Elsie  and  Cissy  chat- 
tered of  some  project  to  dine  with  Walter,  and  go 
to  the  theatre  afterwards,  and  incidentally  Mildred 
learnt  that  Hopwood  Blunt  would  not  be  in  Paris 
before  the  end  of  the  week.  But  where  was  the 
studio .?  The  kiosques  were  now  open,  the  morn- 
ing papers  were  selling  briskly,  the  roadway  was 
full  oi  fiacres  plying  for  hire,  or  were  drawn  up  in 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  6 1 

lines  three  deep,  the  red  waistcoated  coachmen 
slept  on  their  box-seats.  But  where  was  the 
studio  ? 

Suddenly  they  turned  into  an  Arcade.  The 
shops  on  either  side  were  filled  with  jet  orna- 
ments, fancy  glass,  bon-bons,  boxes,  and  fans. 
Cissy  thought  of  a  present  for  Hopwood  —  that 
case  of  liqueur  glasses.  Mildred  examined  a  jet 
brooch  which  she  thought  would  suit  Mrs.  Fargus. 
Elsie  wished  that  Walter  would  present  her  with 
a  fan  ;  and  then  they  went  up  a  flight  of  wooden 
stairs  and  pushed  open  a  swing  door.  In  a  small 
room  furnished  with  a  divan,  a  desk,  and  a  couple 
of  cane  chairs,  they  met  M.  Daveau.  He  wore  a 
short  jacket  and  a  brown-black  beard.  He  shook 
hands  with  Elsie  and  Cissy,  and  was  introduced  to 
Mildred.     Elsie  said  : 

'You  speak  better  than  we  do.  Tell  him  you've 
come  here  to  study.' 

*  I've  come  to  Paris  to  study  painting,*  said 
Mildred.  '  But  I  don't  know  which  I  shall  join, 
the  ladies'  studio  or  the  men's  studio.  Miss 
Laurence  and  Miss  Clive  advised  me  to  work  here, 
in  the  men's  studio.' 

'I  know  Miss  Laurence  and  Miss  Clive  very 
well.'  There  was  charm  in  his  voice,  and  Mildred 
was   already    interested    in    him.     Cissy   and   Elsie 


62  CELIBATES. 

had  drawn  a  curtain  at  the  end  of  the  room  and 
were  peeping  into  the  studio.  'Miss  Laurence  and 
Miss  Clive,'  he  said,  '  worked  here  for  more  than 
a  year.  They  made  a  great  deal  of  progress  —  a 
great  deal.  They  worked  also  in  the  ladies'  studio, 
opposite.' 

*  Ah,  that  is  what  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about. 
Would  you  advise  me  to  work  in  the  men's  studio } 
Do  you  think  it  would  be  advisable }  Do  you  think 
there  would  be  any  advantages  .■• ' 

*We  have  some  very  clever  pupils  here  —  very 
clever;  of  course  it  is  of  great  advantage  to  work 
with  clever  pupils.' 

'  That  is  what  I  think,  but  I  am  not  certain.' 

'  If  Mademoiselle  intends  to  study  painting  seri- 
ously.' 

'  Oh,  but  I  do ;   I  am  very  serious.' 

'Then  I  do  not  think  there  can  be  any  doubt 
which  studio  she  should  choose.' 

'Very  well.' 

'  This  studio  is  a  hundred  francs  a  month  —  for  a 
lady ;  the  ladies'  studio  is  sixty  francs  a  month.' 

'Why  is  that.?' 

'Because,  if  it  were  not  so,  we  should  be  over- 
crowded. Ladies  prefer  to  work  in  this  studio,  it  is 
much  more  advantageous.  If  you  would  like  to  see 
the  studio  first?' 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  63 

There  were  more  than  thirty  in  the  studio ;  about 
twenty  men  and  fifteen  women.  Some  sat  on  low 
stools  close  under  the  platform  whereon  the  model 
stood,  some  worked  at  easels  drawn  close  together  in 
a  semicircle  round  the  room.  The  model  was  less 
shocking  than  Mildred  had  imagined ;  he  stood  with 
his  hands  on  his  hip,  a  staff  in  his  hand ;  and,  had  it 
not  been  for  a  slight  swaying  motion,  she  would 
hardly  have  known  he  was  alive.  She  had  never 
drawn  before  from  the  living  model,  and  was  puzzled 
to  know  how  to  begin.  She  was  going  to  ask  Elsie 
to  tell  her,  when  M.  Daveau  drew  the  curtain  aside, 
and  picking  his  way  through  the  pupils,  came 
straight  to  her.  He  took  the  stool  next  her,  and 
with  a  pleasant  smile  asked  if  she  had  ever  drawn 
from  the  life. 

'  No,'  she  said,  '  I  have  only  copied  a  few  pictures, 
you  learn  nothing  from  copying.' 

He  told  her  how  she  must  count  the  number  of 
heads,  and  explained  to  her  the  advantage  of  the 
plumb-line  in  determining  the  action  of  the  figure. 
Mildred  was  much  interested;  she  wondered  if  she 
would  be  able  to  put  the  instruction  she  was  receiv- 
ing into  practice,  and  was  disappointed  when  the 
model  got  down  from  the  table  and  put  on  his 
trousers. 

'The   model   rests   for  ten   minutes   every   three 


64  CELIBATES. 

quarters  of  an  hour.  He'll  take  the  pose  again  pres- 
ently.    It  is  now  eleven  o'clock.' 

M.  Daveau  laid  the  charcoal  upon  her  easel,  and 
promised  to  come  and  see  how  she  was  getting  on 
later  in  the  afternoon.  But,  just  as  the  model  was 
about  to  take  the  pose  again,  a  young  girl  entered 
the  studio. 

'  Do  you  want  a  model  ?  * 

'Yes,  if  she  has  a  good  figure,'  said  a  student. 
*  Have  you  a  good  figure } '  he  added  with  a  smile. 

'Some  people  think  so.  You  must  judge  for 
yourselves,'  she  answered,  taking  off  her  hat. 

*  Surely  she  is  not  going  to  undress  in  public  !  * 
«aid  Mildred  to  Elsie,  who  had  come  to  her  easel. 


VII. 


Mildred  worked  hard  in  the  studio.  She  was 
always  one  of  the  first  to  arrive,  and  she  did  not 
leave  till  the  model  had  finished  sitting,  and  during 
the  eight  hours,  interrupted  only  by  an  hour  in  the 
middle  of  the  day  for  lunch,  she  applied  herself  to 
her  drawing,  eschewing  conversation  with  the  stu- 
dents, whether  French  or  English.  She  did  not 
leave  her  easel  when  the  model  rested ;  she  waited 
patiently  sharpening  her  pencils  or  reading  —  she 
never  came  to  the  studio  unprovided  with  a  book. 
And  she  made  a  pretty  picture  sitting  on  her  high 
stool,  and  the  students  often  sketched  her  during  the 
rests.  Although  quietly,  she  was  always  beautifully 
dressed.  Simple  though  they  appeared  to  be,  her 
black  cripe  de  chine  skirts  told  of  large  sums  of 
money  spent  in  fashionable  millinery  establishments, 
and  her  large  hats  profusely  trimmed  with  ostrich 
feathers,  which  suited  her  so  well,  contrasted 
strangely  with  the  poor  head-gear  of  the  other  girls  ; 
and  when  the  weather  grew  warmer  she  appeared  in 
a  charming  shot  silk  grey  and  pink,  and  a  black  straw 

F  65 


66  CELIBATES. 

hat  lightly  trimmed  with  red  flowers.  In  answer  to 
Elsie,  who  had  said  that  she  looked  as  if  she  were 
going  to  a  garden-party,  Mildred  said  : 

'  I  don't  see  why,  because  you're  an  artist,  you 
should  be  a  slattern.  I  don't  feel  comfortable  in  a 
dirty  dress.     It  makes  me  feel  quite  ill.' 

Although  Mildred  was  constantly  with  Elsie  and 
Cissy  she  never  seemed  to  be  of  their  company  ; 
and  seeing  them  sitting  together  in  the  Bouillon 
Duval,  at  their  table  next  the  window,  an  observer 
would  be  sure  to  wonder  what  accident  had  sent  out 
that  rare  and  subtle  girl  with  such  cheerful  common- 
ness as  Elsie  and  Cissy.  The  contrast  was  even 
more  striking  when  they  entered  the  eating-house, 
Mildred  looking  a  little  annoyed,  and  always  forget- 
ful of  the  tariff  card  which  she  should  take  from  the 
door-keeper.  Elsie  and  Cissy  triumphant,  making 
for  the  staircase,  as  Mildred  said  to  herself,  'with  a 
flourish  of  cards.'  Mildred  instinctively  hated  the 
Bouillon  Duval,  and  only  went  there  because  her 
friends  could  not  afford  a  restaurant.  The  traffic  of 
the  Bouillon  disgusted  her;  the  food,  she  admitted, 
was  well  enough,  but,  as  she  said,  it  was  mealing  — 
feeding  like  an  animal  in  a  cage,  —  not  dining  or 
breakfasting.     Very  often  she  protested. 

*  Oh,  nonsense,'  said  Cissy,  *  we  shall  get  one  of 
Catherine's  tables  if  we  make  haste.' 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  67 

Catherine  was  their  favourite  waitress.  Like  a 
hen  she  seemed  to  have  taken  them  under  her  pro- 
tection. And  she  told  them  what  were  the  best 
dishes,  and  devoted  a  large  part  of  her  time  to  at- 
tending on  them.  She  liked  Mildred  especially ;  she 
paid  her  compliments  and  so  became  a  contrary 
influence  in  Mildred's  dislike  of  the  Bouillon.  She 
seemed  to  understand  them  thoroughly  from  the 
first.  Elsie  and  Cissy  she  knew  would  eat  every- 
thing, they  were  never  without  their  appetites,  but 
Mildred  very  often  said  she  could  eat  nothing.  Then 
Catherine  would  come  to  the  rescue  with  a  tempting 
suggestion,  Une  belle  aile  de  poulet  avec  sauce  ritnou- 
lade.  'Well,  perhaps  I  could  pick  a  bone,'  Mildred 
would  answer,  and  these  wings  of  chicken  seemed  to 
her  the  best  she  had  ever  eaten.  She  liked  the  tiny 
strawberries  which  were  beginning  to  come  into 
season  ;  she  liked  les  petites  suisses ;  and  she  liked 
the  chatter  of  her  friends,  and  her  own  chatter  across 
the  little  marble  table.  She  thought  that  she  had 
never  enjoyed  talking  so  much  before. 

One  evening,  as  they  stirred  their  coffee,  Elsie 
said,  looking  down  the  street,  '  What  a  pretty 
effect.' 

Mildred  leaned  over  her  friend's  shoulder  and 
saw  the  jagged  outline  of  the  street  and  a  spire 
beautiful   in   the    sunset.      She   was   annoyed    that 


68  CELIBATES. 

she  had  not  first  discovered  the  picturesqueness 
of  the  perspective,  and,  when  Elsie  sketched  the 
street  on  the  marble  table,  she  felt  that  she  would 
never  be  able  to  draw  like  that. 

The  weather  grew  warmer,  and,  in  June,  M.  Daveau 
and  three  or  four  of  the  leading  students  proposed 
that  they  should  make  up  a  party  to  spend  Sunday 
at  Bas  Mendon,  To  arrive  at  Bas  Mendon  in  time 
for  breakfast  they  would  have  to  catch  the  ten 
o'clock  boat  from  the  Pont  Neuf.  Cissy,  Elsie, 
and  Mildred  were  asked  :  there  were  no  French  girls 
to  ask,  so,  as  Elsie  said,  'they'd  have  the  men  to 
themselves.' 

The  day  impressed  itself  singularly  on  Mildred's 
mind.  She  never  forgot  the  drive  to  the  Pont  Neuf 
in  the  early  morning,  the  sunshine  had  seemed  espe- 
cially lovely ;  she  did  not  forget  her  fear  lest  she 
should  be  late  —  she  was  only  just  in  time ;  they 
were  waiting  for  her,  their  paint-boxes  slung  over 
their  shoulders,  and  the  boat  was  moving  alongside 
as  she  ran  down  the  steps.  She  did  not  forget 
M.  Daveau's  black  beard ;  she  saw  it  and  remem- 
bered it  long  afterwards.  But  she  never  could 
recall  her  impressions  of  the  journey  —  she  only 
remembered  that  it  had  seemed  a  long  while,  and 
that  she  was  very  hungry  when  they  arrived.  She 
remembered  the  trellis  and  the  boiled  eggs  and  the 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  69 

cutlets,  and  that  after  breakfast  M.  Daveau  had 
painted  a  high  stairway  that  led  to  the  top  of  the 
hill  and  she  remembered  how  she  had  stood  behind 
him  wondering  at  the  ease  with  which  he  drew  in 
the  steps.  In  the  evening  there  had  been  a  little 
exhibition  of  sketches,  and  in  the  boat  going  home 
he  had  talked  to  her ;  and  she  had  enjoyed  talking 
to  him.  Of  his  conversation  she  only  recalled  one 
sentence.  She  had  asked  him  if  he  liked  classical 
music,  and  he  had  answered,  'There  is  no  music 
except  classical  music'  And  it  was  this  chance 
phrase  that  made  the  day  memorable ;  its  very  sen- 
tentiousness  had  pleased  her  ;  in  that  calm  bright 
evening  she  had  realised  and  it  had  helped  her  to 
realise  that  there  existed  a  higher  plane  of  appre- 
ciation and  feeling  than  that  on  which  her  mind 
moved. 

At  the  end  of  July,  Elsie  and  Cissy  spoke  of 
going  into  the  country,  and  they  asked  Mildred 
to  come  with  them.  Barbizon  was  a  village  close 
to  the  Forest  of  Fontainebleau.  There  was  an  inn 
where  they  would  be  comfortable :  all  the  clever 
young  fellows  went  to  Barbizon  for  the  summer. 
But  Mildred  thought  that  on  the  whole  it  would  be 
better  for  her  to  continue  working  in  the  studio  with- 
out interruption.  Elsie  and  Cissy  did  not  agree  with 
her.     They  told  her  that  she  would  find  the  studio 


70 


CELIBATES. 


almost  deserted  and  quite  intolerable  in  August. 
Bad  tobacco,  drains,  and  Italian  models  —  Faugh ! 
But  their  description  of  what  the  studio  would  be- 
come in  the  hot  weather  did  not  stir  Mildred's  resolu- 
tion. M.  Daveau  had  told  her  that  landscape  painting 
would  come  to  her  very  easily  when  she  had  learnt 
to  draw,  and  that  the  way  to  learn  to  draw  was  to 
draw  from  the  nude.  So  she  bore  with  the  heat 
and  the  smells  for  eight  hours  a  day.  There  were 
but  four  or  five  other  pupils  beside  herself ;  this 
was  an  advantage  in  a  way,  but  these  few  were 
not  inclined  for  work ;  idleness  is  contagious,  and 
Mildred  experienced  much  difficulty  in  remaining 
at  her  easel. 

In  the  evenings  her  only  distraction  was  to  go 
for  a  drive  with  Mrs.  Fargus.  But  too  often  Mrs. 
Fargus  could  not  leave  her  husband,  and  these 
evenings  Mildred  spent  in  reading  or  in  writing 
letters.  The  dulness  of  her  life  and  the  narrowness 
and  aridity  of  her  acquaintance  induced  her  to  write 
very  often  to  Ralph,  and  depression  of  spirits  often 
tempted  her  to  express  herself  more  affectionately 
than  she  would  have  done  in  wider  and  pleasanter 
circumstances.  She  once  spoke  of  the  pleasure  it 
would  give  her  to  see  him,  she  said  that  she  would 
like  to  see  him  walk  into  the  studio.  But  when  he 
took  her  at  her  word  and  she  saw  him  draw  aside 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  /I 

the  curtain  and  look  in,  a  cloud  of  annoyance  gath- 
ered on  her  face.  But  she  easily  assumed  her  pretty 
mysterious  smile  and  said: 

'When  did  you  arrive?' 

'  Only  this  morning.  You  said  you'd  like  to  see 
me.     I  had  to  come.  ...  I  hope  you  are  not  angry.' 

Then  noticing  that  the  girl  next  them  was  an  Eng- 
lish girl,  Ralph  spoke  about  Mildred's  drawing.  She 
did  not  like  him  to  see  it,  but  he  asked  her  for  the 
charcoal  and  said  if  she  would  give  him  her  place 
he  would  see  if  he  could  find  out  what  was  wrong ; 
he  did  not  think  she  had  got  enough  movement  into 
the  figure. 

*  Ah,  that's  what  the  professor  says  when  he 
comes  round  toujours  un  peu  froid  comme  mouve- 
ment.  I  can  get  the  proportions ;  it  is  the  move- 
ment that  bothers  me.' 

'Movement  is  drawing  in  the  real  sense  of  the 
word.  If  they  would  only  teach  you  to  draw  by  the 
movement.' 

He  continued  to  correct  Mildred's  drawing  for 
some  time.  When  he  laid  down  the  charcoal,  he 
said : 

*  How  hot  it  is  here  !  I  wonder  how  you  can  bear 
it.' 

'Yes,  the  heat  is  dreadful.  I'm  too  exhausted  to 
do  much  work.     Supposing  we  go  out.' 


72  CELIBATES. 

They  went  downstairs  and  some  way  along  the 
Passage  des  Panoramas  without  speaking.  At  last 
Mildred  said  : 

'  Are  you  going  to  be  in  Paris  for  long  ? ' 

*  No,  I'm  going  back  at  once,  perhaps  to-morrow. 
You  know  I've  a  lot  of  work  on  hand.  I'm  getting 
on,  luck  has  turned.  I've  sold  several  pictures.  I 
must  get  back.' 

'  Why,  to-morrow  ?  —  it  was  hardly  worth  while 
coming  for  so  short  a  time.' 

*  I  only  came  to  see  you.  You  know  I  couldn't  — 
you  know  —  I  mean  that  I  felt  that  I  must  see  you.* 

Mildred  looked  up,  it  was  an  affectionate  glance ; 
and  she  swung  her  parasol  in  a  way  that  recalled 
their  walks  in  the  Green  Park.  They  passed  out  of 
the  passage  into  the  boulevard.  As  they  crossed  the 
Rue  Vivienne,  Ralph  said  in  his  abrupt  fragmentary 
way: 

'You  said  you'd  like  to  see  me,  I  could  see  from 
your  letters  that  you  were  unhappy.' 

*  No,  I'm  not  unhappy  —  a  little  dull  at  times,  that 
is  all.' 

'You  wrote  me  some  charming  letters.  I  hope 
you  meant  all  you  said.' 

'  Did  I  say  so  much,  then }  I  daresay  I  said  more 
than  I  intended.* 

*  No,  don't  say  that,  don't  say  that* 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  73 

The  absinthe  drinkers,  the  green  trees,  the  blue 
roofs  of  the  great  houses,  all  these  signs  of  the  bou- 
levard, intruded  upon  and  interrupted  their  thoughts  ; 
then  the  boulevard  passed  out  of  their  sight  and 
they  were  again  conscious  of  nothing  but  each  other. 

*  I  met  your  brother.  He  was  anxious  about  you. 
He  wondered  if  you  were  getting  on  and  I  said  that 
I'd  go  and  see.' 

'And  do  you  think  I'm  getting  on ?' 

'  Yes,  I  think  you've  made  progress.  You  couldn't 
have  done  that  drawing  before  you  went  to  Paris,' 

'  You  really  think  so.  .  .  .  I  was  right  to  go  to 
Paris.  ...  I  must  show  you  my  other  drawings. 
I've  some  better  than  that.' 

The  artistic  question  was  discussed  till  they 
reached  the  Place  de  I'Op^ra. 

*  That  is  the  opera-house,'  Mildred  said,  *  and  that  is 
the  Caf6  de  la  Paix.  .  .  .  You  haven't  been  to  Paris 
before  ? ' 

'  No ;  this  is  my  first  visit.  But  I  didn't  come  to 
Paris  to  see  Paris.  I  came  to  see  you.  I  could  not 
help  myself.  Your  letters  were  so  charming.  I  have 
read  them  over  a  thousand  times.  I  couldn't  go  on 
reading  them  without  seeing  you.  ...  I  got  afraid 
that  you'd  find  some  one  here  you'd  fall  in  love  with. 
Some  one  whom  you'd  prefer  to  me.      Have  you?' 

*No;  I  don't  know  that  I  have.' 


74  CELIBATES. 

•Then   why  shouldn't   we  be   married?      That's 
what  I've  come  to  ask  you.' 
'You  mean  now,  in  Paris?' 

*  Why  not  ?  If  you  haven't  met  any  one  you  like 
better,  you  know.' 

*  And  give  up  my  painting,  and  just  at  the  time 
I'm  beginning  to  get  on !  You  said  I  had  improved 
in  my  drawing.' 

'Ah,  your  drawing  interests  you  more  than  I.' 

'  I'd  give  anything  to  draw  like  Misal.     You  don't 

know  him  —  a  student  of  the  Beaux  Arts' 

'  When  you'd  learnt  all  he  knows,  you  wouldn't  be 

any  nearer  to  painting  a  picture.' 

*  That  isn't  very  polite.  You  don't  think  much  of 
my  chances  of  success.  .  .  .     But  we  shall  see.' 

'Mildred,  you  don't  understand  me.  This  is  not 
fair  to  me.  Only  say  when  you'll  marry  me,  and  I'll 
wait,  I'll  wait,  yes,  as  long  as  you  like  —  only  fix  a  time.' 

*  When  I've  learnt  to  draw.' 
'You're  laughing  at  me.' 

Her  face  darkened,  and  they  did  not  speak  again 
till  the  green  roof  of  the  Madeleine  appeared,  strik- 
ing sharp  against  a  piece  of  blue  sky.     Mildred  said  : 

*  This  is  my  way,'  and  she  turned  to  the  right. 

*  You  take  ofifence  without  cause.  When  you  have 
learnt  to  draw  1  We're  always  learning  to  draw. 
No  one  has  ever  learnt  to  draw  perfectly.' 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  75 

*I  have  no  other  answer.' 

•Mildred,  this  isn't  fair.' 

'If  you're  not  satisfied  I  release  you  from  your 
engagement.  Yes,  I  release  you  from  your  engage- 
ment.' 

'  Mildred,  you're  cruel.  You  seem  to  take  pleas- 
ure in  torturing  me.  But  this  cannot  be.  I  cannot 
live  without  you.     What  am  I  to  do  ? ' 

*You  must  try.' 

'  No,  I  shall  not  try,'  he  answered  sullenly. 

'What  win  you  do.?' 

'My  plans  are  made.     I  shall  not  live.' 

'Oh,  Ralph,  you  will  not  kill  yourself.  It  would 
not  be  worth  while.  You've  your  art  to  live  for. 
You  are  —  how  old  are  you  —  thirty  ?  You're  no 
longer  a  sentimental  boy.  You've  got  your  man's 
life  to  lead.     You  must  think  of  it.' 

'I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could.     Life  seems  impossible.' 

She  looked  into  his  pale  gentle  eyes  and  the 
thought  crossed  her  mind  that  his  was  perhaps  one 
of  those  narrow,  gentle  natures  that  cannot  outlive 
such  a  disappointment  as  she  intended  to  inflict. 
It  would  be  very  terrible  if  he  did  commit  suicide, 
the  object  of  his  visit  to  Paris  would  transpire.  But 
no,  he  would  not  commit  suicide,  she  was  quite 
safe,  and  on  that  thought  she  said : 

'I  cannot  remain  out  any  longer.' 


VIII. 

She  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and, 
holding  in  her  hand  her  large  hat  decorated  with 
ostrich  feathers,  she  assured  herself  that  it  was  not 
at  all  likely  that  he  would  commit  suicide.  Yet 
men  did  commit  suicide.  .  .  .  She  did  not  want 
him  to  kill  himself,  that  anything  so  terrible  should 
happen  would  grieve  her  very  much.  She  was  quite 
sincere,  yet  the  thought  persisted  that  it  would  be 
very  wonderful  if  he  did  do  so.  It  would  make  a 
great  scandal.  That  a  man  should  kill  himself  for 
her !  No  woman  had  ever  obtained  more  than  that. 
Standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  twirling  her 
hat,  she  asked  herself  if  she  really  wished  him  to 
kill  himself.  Of  course  not.  Then  she  thought  of 
herself,  of  how  strange  she  was.  She  was  very 
strange,  she  had  never  quite  understood  herself. 

Mechanically,  as  if  in  a  dream,  she  opened  a 
bandbox  and  put  her  hat  away.  She  smoothed  her 
soft  hair  before  the  glass.  Her  appearance  pleased 
her,  and  she  wondered  if  she  were  worth  a  man's 
life.     She  was  a  dainty  morsel,  no  doubt,  so  dainty 

76 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  77 

that  life  was  unendurable  without  her.  But  she  was 
wronging  herself,  she  did  not  wish  him  to  kill  him- 
self. .  .  .  Men  had  done  so  before  for  women.  ...  If 
it  came  to  the  point,  she  would  do  everything  in  her 
power  to  prevent  such  a  thing.  She  would  do  every- 
thing, yes,  everything  except  marry  him.  She  couldn't 
settle  down  to  watch  him  painting  pictures.  She 
wanted  to  paint  pictures  herself.  Would  she  succeed  ? 
He  didn't  think  so,  but  that  was  because  he  wanted 
her  to  marry  him.  And,  if  she  didn't  succeed,  she 
would  have  to  marry  him  or  some  one  else.  She 
would  have  to  live  with  a  man,  give  up  her  whole 
life  to  him,  submit  herself  to  him.  She  must  suc- 
ceed. Success  meant  so  much.  If  she  succeeded, 
she  would  be  spoken  of  in  the  newspapers,  and, 
best  of  all,  she  would  hear  people  say  when  she 
came  into  a  room,  'That  is  Mildred  Lawson.  .  .  .' 
She  didn't  want  to  marry,  but  she  would  like 
to  have  all  the  nicest  men  in  love  with  her.  .  .  . 
Meanwhile  she  was  doing  the  right  thing.  She 
must  learn  to  draw,  and  the  studio  was  the  only 
place  she  could  learn.  But  she  did  not  want  to 
paint  large  portraits  with  dark  backgrounds.  She 
could  not  see  herself  doing  things  like  that. 
Chaplin  was  her  idea.  She  had  always  admired 
him.  His  women  were  so  dainty,  so  elegant, 
so    eighteenth    century  —  wicked    little    women   in 


78  CELIBATES. 

swings,  as  wicked  as   their  ankles,  as  their  lovers' 
guitars. 

But  she  would  have  to  work  two  or  three  years 
before  any  one  could  tell  her  whether  she  would 
succeed.  Two  or  three  years !  It  was  a  long  time, 
but  a  woman  must  do  something  if  she  wishes  to 
attract  attention,  to  be  a  success.  A  little  success 
in  art  went  a  long  way  in  society.  But  Paris  was 
so  dull,  Elsie  and  Cissy  were  still  away.  There 
was  no  one  in  the  studio  who  interested  her; 
moreover,  Elsie  had  told  her  that  any  flirtation 
there  might  easily  bring  banishment  to  the  ladies' 
studio  across  the  way.  So  it  was  provoking  that 
Ralph  had  forced  her  to  throw  him  over  at  that 
particular  moment.  She  would  have  liked  to  have 
kept  him  on,  at  least  till  the  end  of  the  month, 
when  Elsie  and  Cissy  would  return.  The  break 
with  Ralph  was  certainly  not  convenient.  She 
still  felt  some  interest  in  him.  She  would  write 
to  him. 


IX. 


'We've  come  back,'  said  Elsie.  'We  heard  at 
the  studio  that  you  had  gone  away  feeling  ill,  so 
we  came  on  here  to  find  out  how  you  were.' 

*Oh,  it  is  nothing,'  said  Mildred.  'I've  been 
working  rather  hard  lately,  that's  all.' 

*You  should  have  come  with  us,'  said  Cissy. 
'We've  had  an  awfully  jolly  time.' 

'We'll  go  into  the  drawing-room.  Wait  a 
minute  till  I  find  my  slippers.' 

'  Oh,  don't  trouble  to  get  up ;  we  only  came  to 
see  how  you  were,'  said  Elsie. 

'But  I'm  quite  well,  there's  really  nothing  the 
matter.  It  was  only  that  I  felt  I  couldn't  go  on 
working  this  afternoon.  The  model  bored  me,  and 
it  was  so  hot.  It  was  very  good  of  you  to  come 
and  see  me  like  this.* 

'We've  had  a  jolly  time  and  have  done  a  lot  of 
work.' 

'Elsie  has  done  a  girl  weaving  a  daisy-chain  in 
a  meadow.     It  is  wonderful    how   she   has   got   the 

79 


8o  CELIBATES. 

sunlight  on  the  grass.  All  our  things  are  in  the 
studio,  you  will  see  them  to-morrow.' 

'I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  see  them  to-day. 
I'll  dress  myself.' 

The  account  they  gave  of  their  summer  outing 
was  tantalising  to  the  tired  and  jaded  girl.  She 
imagined  the  hushed  and  shady  places,  the  mur- 
muring mystery  of  bird  and  insect  life.  She  could 
see  them  going  forth  in  the  mornings  with  their 
painting  materials,  sitting  at  their  easels  under 
the  tall  trees,  intent  on  their  work  or  lying  on 
rugs  spread  in  the  shade,  the  blue  smoke  of 
cigarettes  curling  and  going  out,  or  later  in  the 
evening  packing  up  easels  and  paint-boxes,  and 
finding  their  way  out  of  the  forest. 

It  was  Elsie  who  did  most  of  the  talking.  Cissy 
reminded  her  now  and  then  of  something  she 
had  forgotten,  and,  when  they  turned  into  the 
Passage  des  Panoramas,  Elsie  was  deep  in  an 
explanation  of  the  folly  of  square  brush  work. 
Both  were  converts  to  open  brush  work.  They 
had  learnt  it  from  a  very  clever  fellow,  an  im- 
pressionist. All  his  shadows  were  violet.  She  did 
not  hold  with  his  theory  regarding  the  division  of 
the  tones:  at  least  not  yet.  Perhaps  she  would 
come  to  it  in  time. 

Mildred  liked  Elsie'?  lady  in  ^  white  dress  read- 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  8 1 

ing  under  a  rhododendron  tree  in  full  blossom. 
Cissy  had  painted  a  naked  woman  in  the  garden 
sunshine.  Mildred  did  not  think  that  flesh  could 
be  so  violet  as  that,  but  there  was  a  dash  and  go 
about  it  that  she  felt  she  would  never  attain.  It 
seemed  to  her  a  miracle,  and,  in  her  admiration 
for  her  friend's  work,  she  forgot  her  own  failure. 
The  girls  dined  at  a  Bouillon  Duval  and  afterwards 
they  went  to  the  theatre  together.  Next  morning 
they  met,  all  three,  in  the  studio ;  the  model  was 
interesting,  Mildred  caught  the  movement  more 
happily  than  usual;  her  friends'  advice  had  helped 
her. 

But  at  least  two  years  would  have  to  pass  before 
she  would  know  if  she  had  the  necessary  talent  to 
succeed  as  an  artist.  For  that  while  she  must  en- 
dure the  drudgery  of  the  studio  and  the  boredom 
of  evenings  alone  with  Mrs,  Fargus,  She  went 
out  with  Elsie  and  Cissy  sometimes,  but  the  men 
they  introduced  her  to  were  not  to  her  taste. 
She  had  seen  no  one  who  interested  her  in  Paris, 
except  perhaps  M.  Daveau.  That  thick-set,  black- 
bearded  southern,  with  his  subtle  southern  manner, 
had  appealed  to  her,  in  a  way.  But  M.  Daveau 
had  been  ordered  suddenly  to  Royon  for  gout  and 
rheumatism,  and  Mildred  was  left  without  any  one 
to  exercise  her  attractions  upon.     She  spent  even- 

G 


82  CELIBATES. 

ing  after  evening  with  Mrs.  Fargus,  until  the 
cropped  hair,  the  spectacles,  above  all,  the  black 
satin  dress  with  the  crimson  scarf,  getting  more 
and  more  twisted,  became  intolerable.  And  Mr. 
Fargus'  cough  and  his  vacuous  conversation,  in 
which  no  shadow  of  an  idea  ever  appeared,  tried 
her  temper.  But  she  forebore,  seeing  how  anxious 
they  were  to  please  her.  That  was  the  worst. 
These  simple  kind-hearted  people  saw  that  their 
sitting-room  bored  Mildred,  and  they  often  took 
her  for  drives  in  the  Bois  after  dinner.  Crazed 
with  boredom  Mildred  cast  side-long  glances  of 
hatred  at  Mrs.  Fargus,  who  sat  by  her  side  a  mute 
little  figure  lost  in  Comte.  Mr.  Fargus'  sallow- 
complexioned  face  was  always  opposite  her;  he 
uttered  commonplaces  in  a  loud  voice,  and  Mildred 
longed  to  fling  herself  from  the  carriage.  At  last, 
unable  to  bear  with  reality,  she  chattered,  laughed, 
and  told  stories  and  joked  until  her  morose  friends 
wondered  at  her  happiness.  Her  friends  were  her 
audience;  they  sufficed  to  stimulate  the  histrionic 
spirit  in  her,  and  she  felt  pleased  like  an  actor 
who  has  amused  an  audience  which  he  despises. 

She  had  now  been  in  Paris  seven  months,  but 
she  had  seen  little  of  Paris  except  the  studio  and 
the  Bouillon  Duval  where  she  went  to  breakfast 
with  Elsie  and  Cissy.     The  spectacle  of  the  Boule- 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  83 

vards,  the  trees  and  the  cafes  always  the  same, 
had  begun  to  weary  her.  Her  health,  too,  troubled 
her  a  little,  she  was  not  very  strong,  and  she  had 
begun  to  think  that  a  change  would  do  her  good. 
She  would  return  to  Paris  in  the  spring;  she 
would  spend  next  summer  in  Barbizon;  she  was 
determined  to  allow  nothing  to  interfere  with  her 
education;  but,  for  the  moment,  she  felt  that  she 
must  go  back  to  Sutton.  Every  day  her  craving 
for  England  grew  more  intolerable.  She  craved  for 
England,  for  her  home,  for  its  food,  for  its  asso- 
ciations. She  longed  for  her  own  room,  for  her 
garden,  for  the  trap.  She  wanted  to  see  all  the 
girls,  to  hear  what  they  thought  of  her  absence. 
She  wanted  to  see  Harold. 

At  first  his  letters  had  irritated  her,  she  had  said 
that  he  wanted  her  to  look  after  his  house ;  she  had 
argued  that  a  man  never  hesitates  to  put  aside  a 
woman's  education,  if  it  suits  his  convenience.  But 
now  it  seemed  to  her  that  it  would  be  unkind  to 
leave  Harold  alone  any  longer.  It  was  manifestly 
her  duty  to  go  home,  to  spend  Christmas  with  him. 
She  was  only  going  to  Sutton  for  a  while.  She 
loved  France,  and  would  certainly  return.  She 
knew  now  what  Paris  was  like,  and  when  she  re- 
turned it  would  be  alone,  or  in  different  company. 
Mrs.  Fargus  was  very  well,  but  she  could  not  go  on 


84  CELIBATES. 

living  with  her  for  ever.  She  would  come  in  useful 
another  time.  But,  for  the  moment,  she  could  not 
go  on  living  with  her,  she  had  become  a  sort  of  Old 
Man  of  the  Sea,  and  the  only  way  to  rid  herself  of 
her  was  by  returning  to  England. 

An  imperative  instinct  was  drawing  her  back  to 
England,  but  another  instinct  equally  strong  said : 
*As  soon  as  I  am  rested,  nothing  shall  prevent  me 
from  returning  to  Paris.' 


•     X. 

The  sea  was  calm  and  full  of  old-fashioned  brigs 
and  barques.  She  watched  them  growing  small  like 
pictures  floating  between  a  green  sea  and  a  mauve 
sky ;  and  then  was  surprised  to  see  the  white  cliffs 
so  near;  and  the  blowing  woodland  was  welcome 
after  the  treeless  French  plain. 

Harold  was  to  meet  her  at  Victoria,  and  when  she 
had  answered  his  questions  regarding  the  crossing, 
and  they  had  taken  their  seats  in  the  suburban  train, 
he  said : 

*  You're  looking  a  little  tired,  you've  been  over- 
doing it.* 

*Yes,  I've  been  working  pretty  hard,'  she  said, 
and  the  conversation  paused. 

The  trap  was  waiting  for  them  at  the  station  and, 
when  they  got  in,  Mildred  said  : 

'I  wonder  what  there  will  be  for  dinner.' 

'  I  think  there  is  boiled  salmon  and  a  roast  leg  of 
mutton.     Will  that  suit  you  ? ' 

'Well,'  said  Mildred,  'isn't  that  taking  a  somewhat 
sudden  leap.^' 

85 


86  CELIBATES. 

'  Leap  where  ? ' 

'  Why,  into  England.  I  should  have  thought  that 
some  sort  of  dish  —  a  roast  chicken  or  a  boiled 
chicken  would  have  been  a  pas  de  Calais  kind  of 
dish.' 

*  You  shall  have  roast  chicken  to-morrow,  or  would 
you  like  them  boiled.'* 

*  I  don't  mind,'  said  Mildred,  more  disappointed  at 
the  failure  of  her  joke  than  at  the  too  substantial 
fare  that  awaited  her.  'Poor  Harold,'  she  thought, 
*is  the  best  of  fellows,  but,  like  all  of  them,  he  can't 
see  a  joke.  The  cooking  I  can  alter,  but  he'll 
always  remain  boiled  and  roast  leg  of  mutton.' 

But,  though  with  little  sense  of  humour,  Harold 
was  not  as  dense  as  Mildred  thought.  He  saw  that 
her  spirits  were  forced,  that  she  was  in  ill-health,  and 
required  a  long  rest.  So  he  was  not  surprised  to 
hear  in  the  morning  that  she  was  too  tired  to  come 
down  to  breakfast ;  she  had  a  cup  of  tea  in  her  room, 
and  when  she  came  down  to  the  dining-room  she 
turned  from  the  breakfast  table.  She  could  touch 
nothing,  and  went  out  of  doors  to  see  what  kind  of 
day  it  was. 

The  skies  were  grey  and  lowering,  the  little  ave- 
nue that  led  to  the  gate  was  full  of  dead  leaves  ; 
they  fluttered  down  from  the  branches ;  the  lawn 
was  soaked,  and  the  few  flowers  that  remained  were 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  87 

pale  and  worn.  A  sense  of  death  and  desolation 
pervaded  the  damp,  moist  air ;  Mildred  felt  sorrow 
mounting  in  her  throat,  and  a  sense  of  dread,  occa- 
sioned by  the  sudden  showering  of  a  bough,  caused 
her  to  burst  into  tears.  She  had  no  strength  left, 
she  felt  that  she  was  going  to  be  ill,  and  trembled 
lest  she  should  die. 

To  die,  and  she  so  young !  No,  she  would  live, 
she  would  succeed.  But  to  do  that  she  must  take 
more  care  of  her  health.  She  would  eat  no  more 
bon-bons ;  she  threw  the  box  away.  And,  conquer- 
ing her  repugnance  to  butchers'  meat,  she  finished 
a  chop  and  drank  a  couple  of  glasses  of  wine  for 
lunch.  The  food  did  her  good,  and  she  determined 
to  take  a  long  rest.  For  a  month  she  would  do 
nothing  but  rest,  she  would  not  think  of  painting, 
she  would  not  even  draw  on  the  blotting-pad.  Rest 
was  what  she  wanted,  and  there  was  no  better  place 
to  rest  than  Sutton. 

'  If  it  weren't  so  dull.'  She  sighed  and  looked 
out  on  the  wet  lawn.  No  one  would  call,  no  one 
knew  she  had  come  home.  Was  it  wise  for  her  to 
venture  out,  and  on  such  a  day }  She  felt  that  it 
was  not,  and  immediately  after  ordered  the  trap. 

She  went  to  call  on  some  friends.  ...  If  they 
would  allow  her  to  bring  Mabel  back  to  dinner  it 
would  be  nice,  she  could  show  Mabel  her  dresses 


88  CELIBATES. 

and  tell  her  about  Paris.  But  Mabel  was  staying 
with  friends  in  London,  This  was  very  disappoint- 
ing, but  determined  to  see  some  one  Mildred  went 
a  long  way  in  search  of  a  girl  who  used  to  bore  her 
dreadfully.  But  she  too  was  out.  Coming  home 
Mildred  was  caught  in  the  rain ;  the  exertion  of 
changing  her  clothes  had  exhausted  her,  and  sitting 
in  the  warmth  of  the  drawing-room  fire  she  grew 
fainter  and  fainter.  The  footman  brought  in  the 
lamp.  She  got  up  in  some  vague  intention  of  fetch- 
ing a  book,  but,  as  she  crossed  the  room,  she  fell  full 
length  along  the  floor. 


XI. 


When  she  was  able  to  leave  her  room  she 
was  ordered  to  the  sea-side.  After  a  fortnight  in 
Brighton  she  went  to  stay  with  some  friends  in 
town.  Christmas  she  spent  in  Sutton.  There  was 
a  large  party  of  Harold's  friends,  business  folk, 
whom  Mildred  hated.  She  was  glad  when  they  left, 
and  she  was  free  to  choose  the  room  that  suited  her 
purpose  best.  She  purchased  draperies,  and  hired 
models,  and  commenced  a  picture.  She  commenced 
a  second  picture,  but  that  too  went  wrong ;  she 
then  tried  a  few  studies.  She  got  on  better  with 
these,  but  it  soon  became  clear  to  her  that  she 
could  not  carry  out  her  ideas  until  she  had  learned 
to  draw. 

Another  two  years  of  hard  work  in  the  studio 
were  necessary.  But  as  she  was  not  going  to  Paris 
till  the  spring  her  thoughts  turned  to  the  National 
Gallery,  and  on  the  following  week  she  commenced 
copying  a  head  by  Greuse.  She  had  barely  finished 
sketching  in  the  head  when  Miss  Brand  told  her 
that  Ralph  was  very  ill  and  was  not  expected  to  live. 

89 


90  CELIBATES. 

She  laid  her  charcoal  on  the  easel,  the  movement 
was  very  slow,  and  she  lifted  a  frightened  face. 

'  What  is  the'  matter  with  him  ?     Do  you  know  ? ' 

'He  caught  a  bad  cold  about  a  month  ago,  he 
doesn't  seem  ever  to  have  got  over  it.  But  for  a 
long  time  he  has  been  looking  worried,  you  know 
the  look  of  a  man  who  has  something  on  his  mind.' 

A  close  observer  might  have  noticed  that  the 
expression  on  Mildred's  face  changed  a  little.  'He 
is  dying  for  me,'  she  thought.  *  He  is  dying  for  love 
of  me.'  And  as  in  a  ray  of  sunlight  she  basked 
for  a  moment  in  a  little  glow  of  self-satisfaction. 
Then,  almost  angrily,  she  defended  herself  against 
herself.  She  was  not  responsible  for  so  casual  a 
thought,  the  greatest  saint  might  be  the  victim  of 
a  wandering  thought.  She  was,  of  course,  glad  that 
he  liked  her,  but  she  was  sorry  that  she  had  caused 
him  suffering.  He  must  have  suffered.  Men  will 
sacrifice  anything  for  their  passions.  But  no,  Ralph 
had  always  been  nice  with  her,  she  owed  him  a 
great  deal;  they  had  had  pleasant  times  together  — 
in  this  very  gallery.  She  could  remember  almost 
every  word  he  said.  She  had  liked  him  to  lean  over 
her  shoulder,  and  correct  her  drawing.  He  would 
never  do  so  again. 

Good  heavens !  .  .  .  Just  before  Miss  Brand 
came  up  to  speak  to  her  she  was  wondering  if  she 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  9 1 

should  meet  him  in  the  gallery,  and  what  he  would 
think  of  the  Greuse.  He  wouldn't  care  much  about 
it.  He  didn't  care  much  about  the  French  eigh- 
teenth century,  of  course  he  admired  Watteau,  but 
it  was  an  impersonal  admiration,  there  was  nothing 
of  the  Watteau,  Greuse,  Pater,  or  Lancret  in  him. 
He  was  purely  English.  He  took  no  interest  in 
the  unreal  charm  that  that  head  expressed.  Of 
course,  no  such  girl  had  ever  existed  or  could  exist, 
those  melting  eyes  and  the  impossible  innocence  of 
that  mouth !  It  was  the  soul  of  a  courtesan  in  the 
body  of  a  virgin.  She  was  like  that,  somewhat  like 
that ;  and,  inspired  by  the  likeness  between  her- 
self and  the  picture,  Mildred  took  up  her  charcoal 
and  continued  her  drawing. 

But  she  must  have  been  thinking  vaguely  all  the 
while  of  Ralph,  for  suddenly  her  thoughts  became 
clear  and  she  heard  the  words  as  if  they  had  been 
read  to  her :  '  Lots  of  men  have  killed  themselves 
for  women,  but  to  die  of  a  broken  heart  proves  a 
great  deal  more.  Few  women  have  inspired  such 
a  love  as  that.  ...  If  it  were  known  —  if  —  she 
pushed  the  thought  angrily  aside  as  one  might  a 
piece  of  furniture  over  which  one  has  stumbled  in 
the  dark.  It  was  shocking  that  thoughts  should 
come  uncalled  for,  and  such  thoughts !  the  very  op- 
posite of  what  she  really  felt.     That  man  had  been 


92 


CELIBATES. 


very  good  to  her;  she  had  liked  him  very  much. 
It  was  shocking  that  she  had  been  the  cause  of  his 
death.  It  was  too  terrible.  But  it  was  most  im- 
probable, it  was  much  more  likely  that  his  illness 
was  the  effect  of  the  cold  he  had  caught  last  month. 
Men  did  not  die  of  broken  hearts.  She  had  noth- 
ing whatever  to  do  with  it.  .  .  .  And  yet  she  didn't 
know.  When  men  like  him  set  their  hearts  on  a 
woman  —  she  was  very  sorry,  she  was  sorry.  But 
there  was  no  use  thinking  any  more   about  it  .  .  . 

So  she  locked  up  her  paint-box  and  left  the  gal- 
lery. She  was  nervous  ;  her  egotism  had  fright- 
ened her  a  little.  He  was  dying,  and  for  her,  yet 
she  felt  nothing.  Not  only  were  her  eyes  dry,  but 
her  heart  was  too.  A  pebble  with  her  own  name 
written  on  it,  that  was  her  heart.  She  wished  to 
feel,  she  longed  for  the  long  ache  of  regret  which 
she  read  of  in  books,  she  yearned  for  tears.  Tears 
were  a  divine  solace,  grief  was  beautiful.  And  all 
along  the  streets  she  continued  to  woo  sorrow  — 
she  thought  of  his  tenderness,  the  real  goodness  of 
his  nature,  his  solicitude  for  her,  and  she  allowed 
her  thoughts  to  dwell  on  the  pleasant  hours  they 
had  passed  together. 

Her  heart  remained  unmoved,  but  her  feet  led 
her  towards  St.  James'  Park.  She  thought  she 
would  like  to  see  it  again,  and  when  she  stood  on 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  93 

the  bridge  where  they  had  so  often  stood,  when  she 
visited  the  seat  where  they  had  often  sat  chatting 
under  the  budding  trees  her  eyes  would  surely  fill 
with  tears,  and  she  would  grieve  for  her  dying  lover 
as  appropriately  as  any  other  woman. 

But  that  day  the  park  was  submerged  in  blue  mist. 
The  shadows  of  the  island  fell  into  the  lake,  still  as 
death ;  and  the  birds,  moving  through  the  little 
light  that  lingered  on  the  water,  seemed  like  shad- 
ows, strange  and  woe-begone.  To  Mildred  it 
seemed  all  like  death.  She  would  never  again  walk 
with  him  in  the  pretty  spring  mornings  when  light 
mist  and  faint  sunlight  play  together,  and  the  trees 
shake  out  their  foliage  in  the  warm  air.  How  sad  it 
all  was.  But  she  did  feel  sorry  for  him,  she  really 
was  sorry,  though  she  wasn't  overcome  with  grief. 
But  she  had  done  nothing  wrong.  In  justice  to  her- 
self she  could  not  admit  that  she  had.  She  always 
knew  just  where  to  draw  the  line,  and  if  other  girls 
did  not,  so  much  the  worse  for  them.  He  had 
wanted  to  marry  her,  but  that  was  no  reason  why 
she  should  marry  him.  She  may  have  led  him  to 
expect  that  she  would  sooner  or  later,  but  in  break- 
ing with  him  she  had  done  the  wisest  thing.  She 
would  not  have  made  him  happy ;  she  was  not  sure 
that  she  could  make  any  man  happy  .  .  . 

Awaking  from  her  thoughts  she  reproached  her- 


94  CELIBATES. 

self  for  her  selfishness,  she  was  always  thinking  of 
herself  ,  .  .  and  that  poor  fellow  was  dying  for  love 
of  her !  She  knew  what  death  was  ;  she  too  had 
been  ill.  She  was  quite  well  now,  but  she  had  been 
ill  enough  to  see  to  the  edge  of  that  narrow  little  slit 
in  the  ground,  that  terrible  black  little  slit  whence 
Ralph  was  going,  going  out  of  her  sight  for  ever, 
out  of  sight  of  the  park,  this  park  which  would  be 
as  beautiful  as  ever  in  another  couple  of  months,  and 
where  he  had  walked  with  her.  How  terrible  it  was, 
how  awful  —  and  how  cold,  she  could  not  stand  on 
the  bridge  any  longer.  She  shivered  and  said,  '  I'm 
catching  a  cold.' 

For  the  sake  of  her  figure  she  never  wore  quite 
enough  clothes,  and  she  regretted  her  imprudence 
in  standing  so  long  on  the  misty  bridge.  She  must 
take  care  of  herself,  for  her  to  feel  ill  would  serve  no 
purpose  —  she  would  not  be  able  to  see  Ralph,  and 
she  wanted  to  see  him  above  all  things.  As  she 
crossed  the  open  space  in  front  of  Buckingham 
Palace  the  desire  to  see  him  laid  hold  of  her.  She 
must  know  if  he  were  really  dying.  She  would  drive 
straight  to  his  studio.  She  had  been  there  before, 
but  then  she  knew  no  one  would  be  there.  She 
would  have  to  risk  the  chance  of  some  one  see- 
ing her  going  in  and  coming  out.  But  no  matter 
who  saw   her,   she    must  go.      She  hailed  a  han- 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  95 

som,  and  the  discovery  that  she  was  capable  of 
so  much  adventure,  pleased  her.  She  thought  of 
his  poor  sick-bed  in  the  dark  room  behind  the  stu- 
dio. She  had  caught  sight  of  his  bedroom  as  she 
had  passed  through  the  passage.  She  believed  her- 
self capable  and  willing  to  sit  by  his  sick-bed  and 
nurse  him.  She  did  not  as  a  rule  care  for  sick  peo- 
ple, but  she  thought  she  would  like  to  nurse  him. 
The  hansom  turned  through  the  Chelsea  streets 
getting  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  studio.  She  won- 
dered who  was  nursing  him  —  there  must  be  some 
one  there.  .  .  .  The  hansom  stopped.  She  got 
out  and  knocked.  The  door  was  opened  by  a  young 
woman  who  looked  like  a  servant,  but  Mildred  was 
not  deceived  by  her  appearance.  *  One  of  his  models 
come  to  nurse  him,'  she  thought. 

*I  have  heard,'  she  said,  'that  Mr.  Hoskin  is  ill' 
'  Yes,  he  is  very  ill,  I'm  sorry  to  say.' 

*  I  should  like  to  see  him.     Will  you  inquire  ? ' 

*  He's  not  well  enough  to  see  any  one  to-day.  He 
has  just  dozed  off.  I  couldn't  awake  him.  But  I'll 
give  him  any  message.' 

*  Give  him  my  card  and  say  I  would  like  to  see 
him.     Stay,  I'll  write  a  word  upon  it.' 

While  Mildred  wrote  on  the  card  the  girl  watched 
her  —  her  face  was  full  of  suspicion ;  and  when  she 
read  the  name,  an  involuntary  *  Oh  *  escaped  from 


96  CELIBATES. 

her,  and  Mildred  knew  that  Ralph  had  spoken  of  her. 
*  Probably,'  she  thought,  '  she  has  been  his  mistress. 
She  wouldn't  be  here  nursing,  if  she  hadn't  been.' 

'  I'll  give  him  your  card.' 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  lower  her  eyes  and 
murmur  '  thank  you,'  and  before  she  reached  the  end 
of  the  street  her  discomfort  had  materially  increased. 
She  was  humiliated  and  angry,  humiliated  that  that 
girl  should  have  seen  through  her  so  easily,  angry 
that  Ralph  should  have  spoken  about  her  to  his 
mistress ;  for  she  was  sure  that  the  woman  was,  or 
had  been,  his  mistress.  She  regretted  having  asked 
to  see  Ralph,  but  she  had  asked  for  an  appoint- 
ment, she  could  hardly  get  out  of  it  now.  .  .  .  She 
would  have  to  meet  that  woman  again,  but  she 
wanted  to  see  Ralph. 

'Ralph,  I  suppose,  told  her  the  truth.' 

A  moment's  reflection  convinced  Mildred  that  that 
was  probably  the  case,  and  reassured,  she  went  to 
bed  wondering  when  she  would  get  a  letter.  She 
might  get  one  in  the  morning.  She  was  not  dis- 
appointed ;  the  first  letter  she  opened  read  as 
follows  :  — 

•  Madam,  — Mr.  Hoskin  begs  me  to  thank  you  for  your  kind 
inquiry.  He  is  feeling  a  little  stronger  and  will  be  glad  to  see 
you.  His  best  time  is  in  the  afternoon  about  three  o'clock. 
Could  you  make  it  convenient  to  call  about  that  time  ? 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  97 

*  I  think  it  right  to  warn  you  that  it  would  be  well  not  to 
speak  of  an)^hing  that  would  be  likely  to  excite  him,  for  the 
doctor  says  that  all  hope  of  his  recovery  depends  on  his  being 
kept  quiet.  —  I  am,  Madam,  yours  truly, 

'Ellen  Gibbs.' 


'Ellen  Gibbs,  so  that  is  her  name,'  thought  Mil- 
dred. There  was  a  note  of  authority  in  the  letter 
which  did  not  escape  Mildred's  notice  and  which  she 
easily  translated  into  a  note  of  animosity,  if  not  of 
hatred.  Mildred  did  not  like  meeting  this  woman, 
something  told  her  that  it  would  be  wiser  not,  but 
she  wanted  to  see  Ralph,  and  an  expression  of  vin- 
dictiveness  came  into  her  cunning  eyes.  *  If  she 
dares  to  try  to  oppose  me,  she'll  soon  find  out  her 
mistake.  I'll  very  soon  settle  her,  a  common  woman 
like  that.  Moreover  she  has  been  his  mistress,  I 
have  not,  she  will  quail  before  me,  I  shall  have  no 
difficulty  in  getting  the  best  of  her.' 

*  To-morrow.  This  letter  was  written  last  night,  so 
I  have  to  go  to  see  him  to-day,  this  afternoon,  three 
o'clock,  I  shall  have  to  go  up  after  lunch  by  the  two 
o'clock  train.  That  will  get  me  there  by  three.  .  ,  . 
I  wonder  if  he  is  really  dying  ?  If  I  were  to  go  and 
see  him  and  he  were  to  recover  it  would  be  like 
beginning  it  over  again.  .  .  .  But  I  don't  know 
why  every  base  thought  and  calculation  enter  my 
head.     I  don't  know  why  such  thoughts  should  come 


98  CELIBATES. 

into  my  head,  I  don't  know  why  they  do  come,  I 
don't  call  them  nor  do  their  promptings  affect  me. 
I  am  going  to  see  him  because  I  was  once  very  fond 
of  him,  because  I  caused  him,  through  no  fault  of 
mine,  a  great  deal  of  suffering  —  because  it  appears 
that  he's  dying  for  love  of  me.  I  know  he'd  like  to 
see  me  before  he  dies,  that's  why  I  am  going,  and 
yet  horrid  thoughts  will  come  into  my  head ;  to  hear 
me  thinking,  any  one  would  imagine  it  was  only  on 
account  of  my  own  vanity  that  I  wanted  to  see  him, 
whereas  it  is  quite  the  contrary.  As  a  rule  I  hate 
sick  people,  and  I'm  sure  it  is  most  disagreeable  to 
me  to  meet  that  woman.' 

The  two  o'clock  train  took  her  to  town,  a  hansom 
from  Victoria  to  the  studio ;  she  dismissed  the  han- 
som at  the  corner  and  walked  up  the  street  thinking 
of  the  woman  who  would  open  the  door  to  her. 
There  was  something  about  the  woman  she  didn't 
like.  But  it  didn't  matter;  she  would  be  shown  in 
at  once,  and  of  course  left  alone  with  Ralph  .  .  . 
Supposing  the  woman  were  to  sit  there  all  the  while. 
But  it  was  too  late  now,  she  had  knocked. 

*  I've  come  to  see  Mr.  Hoskin.'  Feeling  that 
her  speech  was  too  abrupt  she  added,  '  I  hope  he 
is  better  to-day.' 

*Yes,  I'm  thankful  to  say  he's  a  little  better.' 

Mildred  stopped  in  the  passage,  and  Ellen  said : 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  99 

'Mr.  Hoskin  isn't  in  his  bedroom.  We've  put 
him  into  the  studio,' 

*I  hope  she  doesn't  think  that  I've  been  in  his 
bedroom,'  thought  Mildred.  Ralph  lay  in  a  small 
iron  bed,  hardly  more  than  a  foot  from  the  floor, 
and  his  large  features,  wasted  by  illness,  seemed 
larger  than  ever.  But  a  glow  appeared  in  his 
dying  eyes  at  the  sight  of  Mildred,  Ellen  placed 
a  chair  by  his  bedside  and  said : 

'  I  will  go  out  for  a  short  walk.  I  shan't  be  away 
more  than  half  an  hour.' 

Their  eyes  said,  'We  shall  be  alone  for  half  an 
hour,'  and  she  took  the  thin  hand  he  extended  to 
her. 

'  Oh,  Ralph,  I'm  sorry  to  find  you  ill.  .  .  .  But 
you're  better  to-day,  aren't  you.'' 

'Yes,  I  feel  a  little  better  to-day.  It  was  good 
of  you  to  come.' 

*  I  came  at  once.' 

'  How  did  you  hear  I  was  ill .'  We've  not  written 
to  each  other  for  a  long  while,' 

'  I  heard  it  in  the  National.     Miss  Brand  told  me.* 

*  You  know  her  ? ' 

'I  remember,  she  wrote  about  the  new  pictures 
for  an  American  paper.' 

'Yes.  How  familiar  it  sounds,  those  dear  days 
in  the  National.* 


100  CELIBATES, 

Ralph's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her.  She  could 
not  bear  their  wistfulness,  and  she  lowered  hers. 

'She  told  me  you  were  ill.' 

'  But  when  did  you  return  from  France  ?    Tell  me.' 

'About  six  weeks  ago.  I  fell  ill  the  moment  I 
got  back.' 

'What  was  the  matter.?' 

'I  had  overdone  it.  I  had  overworked  myself. 
I  had  let  myself  run  down.  The  doctor  said  that 
I  didn't  eat  enough  meat.  You  know  I  never  did 
care  for  meat.' 

'  I  remember.' 

'When  I  got  better  I  was  ordered  to  the  sea- 
side, then  I  went  on  a  visit  to  some  friends  and 
didn't  get  back  to  Sutton  till  Christmas.  We  had 
a  lot  of  stupid  people  staying  with  us.  I  couldn't 
do  any  work  while  they  were  in  the  house.  When 
they  left  I  began  a  picture,  but  I  tried  too  difficult 
subjects  and  got  into  trouble  with  my  drawing. 
You  said  I'd  never  succeed.  I  often  thought  of 
what  you  said.  Well,  then,  I  went  to  the  National. 
Nellie  Brand  told  me  you  were  ill,  that  you  had 
been  ill  for  some  time,  at  least  a  month.' 

A  thin  smile  curled  Ralph's  red  lips  and  his  eyes 
seemed  to  grow  more  wistful. 

'I've  been  ill  more  than  a  month,'  he  said.  'But 
no  matter,  Nellie  Brand  told  you  and ' 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  lOI 

*Of  course  I  could  not  stay  at  the  National.  I 
felt  I  must  see  you.  I  didn't  know  how.  .  .  .  My 
feet  turned  towards  St.  James'  Park.  I  stood  on  the 
little  bridge  thinking.  You  know  I  was  very  fond 
of  you,  Ralph,  only  it  was  in  my  way  and  you 
weren't  satisfied.'  She  looked  at  him  sideways,  so 
that  her  bright  brown  eyes  might  have  all  their 
charm ;  his  pale  eyes,  wistful  and  dying,  were  fixed 
on  her,  not  intently  as  a  few  moments  before,  but 
vaguely,  and  the  thought  stirred  in  her  that  he 
might  die  before  her  eyes.  In  that  case  what  was 
she  to  do  ?    *  Are  you  listening } '  she  said. 

*  Oh  yes,  I'm  listening,'  he  answered,  his  smile  was 
reassuring,  and  she  said : 

*  Suddenly  I  felt  that  —  that  I  must  see  you.  I 
felt  I  must  know  what  was  the  matter,  so  I  took  a 
cab  and  came  straight  here.     Your  servant ' 

'You  mean  Ellen.' 

*  I  thought  she  was  your  servant,  she  said  that  you 
were  lying  down  and  could  not  be  disturbed.  She 
did  not  seem  to  wish  me  to  see  you  or  to  know  what 
was  the  matter.* 

*  I  was  asleep  when  you  called  yesterday,  but  when 
I  heard  of  your  visit  I  told  her  to  write  the  letter 
which  you  received  this  morning.  It  was  kind  of 
you  to  come.' 

'  Kind  of  me  to  come !    You  must  think  badly  of 


I02  CELIBATES. 

me  if  you  think  I  could  have  stayed  away.  .  .  .  But 
now  tell  me,  Ralph,  what  is  the  matter,  what  does 
the  doctor  say  ?  Have  you  had  the  best  medical 
advice,  are  you  in  want  of  anything  ?  Can  I  do 
anything  ?  Pray,  don't  hesitate.  You  know  that  I 
was,  that  I  am,  very  fond  of  you,  that  I  would 
do  anything.  You  have  been  ill  a  long  while  now 
—  what  is  the  matter } ' 

'Thank  you,  dear.  Things  must  take  their  course. 
What  that  course  is  it  is  impossible  to  say.  I've 
had  excellent  medical  advice  and  Ellen  takes  care 
of  me.' 

'  But  what  is  your  illness  ?  Nellie  Brand  told  me 
that  you  caught  a  bad  cold  about  a  month  ago. 
Perhaps  a  specialist ' 

'Yes,  I  had  a  bad  attack  of  influenza  about  a 
month  or  six  weeks  ago  and  I  hadn't  strength,  the 
doctor  said,  to  recover  from  it.  I  have  been  in  bad 
health  for  some  time.  I've  been  disappointed.  My 
painting  hasn't  gone  very  well  lately.  That  was 
a  disappointment.  Disappointment,  I  think,  is  as 
often  the  cause  of  a  man's  death  as  anything  else. 
The  doctors  give  it  a  name:  influenza,  or  paralysis 
of  the  brain,  failure  of  the  heart's  action,  but  these 
are  the  superficial  causes  of  death.  There  is  often 
a  deeper  reason :  one  which  medical  science  is  un- 
able to  take  into  account.' 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  IO3 

'Oh,  Ralph,  you  mean  me.  Don't  say  that  I  am 
the  cause.  It  was  not  my  fault.  If  I  broke  my 
engagement  it  was  because  I  knew  I  could  not  have 
made  you  happy.  There's  no  reason  to  be  jealous, 
it  wasn't  for  any  other  man.  There  never  will  be 
another  man.  I  was  really  very  fond  of  you.  .  .  . 
It  wasn't  my  fault.' 

'No,  dear,  it  wasn't  your  fault.  It  wasn't  any 
one's  fault,  it  was  the  fault  of  luck.' 

Mildred  longed  for  tears,  but  her  eyes  remained 
dry,  and  they  wandered  round  the  studio  examining 
and  wondering  at  the  various  canvases.  A  woman 
who  had  just  left  her  bath  passed  her  arms  into 
the  sleeves  of  a  long  white  wrapper.  There  was 
something  peculiarly  attractive  in  the  picture.  The 
picture  said  something  that  had  not  been  said  be- 
fore, and  Mildred  admired  its  naturalness.  But  she 
was  still  more  interested  in  the  fact  that  the  picture 
had  been  painted  from  the  woman  who  had  opened 
the  door  to  her. 

'  She  sits  for  the  figure  and  attends  on  him  when 
he  is  ill,  she  must  be  his  mistress.  Since  when  I 
wonder  ? ' 

*  How  do  you  like  it .-' '  he  asked. 

'Very  much.  It  is  beautifully  drawn,  so  natural 
and  so  original.  How  did  you  think  of  that  move- 
ment ?    That  is  just  how  a  woman  passes  her  arms 


104  CELIBATES. 

into  her  wrapper  when  she  get  out  of  her  bath. 
How  did  you  think  of  it  ? ' 

'I  don't  know.  She  took  the  pose.  I  think  the 
movement  is  all  right.' 

*  Yes ;  it  is  a  movement  that  happens  every  morn- 
ing, yet  no  one  thought  of  it  before.  How  did  you 
think  of  it.?' 

'  I  don't  know,  I  asked  her  to  take  some  poses 
and  it  came  like  that.  I  think  it  is  good.  I'm  glad 
you  like  it.' 

'  It  is  very  different  from  the  stupid  things  we 
draw  in  the  studio.' 

'  I  told  you  that  you'd  do  no  good  by  going  to 
France.' 

'I  learnt  a  good  deal  there.  Every  one  cannot 
learn  by  themselves  as  you  did.  Only  genius  can 
do  that.' 

'  Genius !  A  few  little  pictures  ...  I  think  I 
might  have  done  something  if  I  had  got  the  chance. 
I  should  have  liked  to  have  finished  that  picture. 
It  is  a  good  beginning.     I  never  did  better.' 

'Dearest,  you  will  live  to  paint  your  picture.  I 
want  you  to  finish  it,  I  want  you  to :  live  for  my 
sake.  ...     I  will  buy  that  picture.' 

'There's  only  one  thing  I  should  care  to  live 
for.' 

*  And  that  you  shall  have.* 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  105 

'  Then  I'll  try  to  live. '  He  raised  himself  a  little 
in  bed.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  and  he  tried 
hard  to  believe.  'I'm  afraid,'  he  said,  'it's  too  late 
now.'  She  watched  him  with  the  eyes  she  knew 
he  loved,  and  though  ashamed  of  the  question,  she 
could  not  put  it  back,  and  it  slipped  through  her 
lips. 

'Would  you  sooner  live  for  me  than  for  that 
picture  ? ' 

'  One  never  knows  what  one  would  choose,'  he 
said.  *  Such  speculations  are  always  vain,  and  never 
were  they  vainer  than  now.  .  .  .  But  I'm  glad  you 
like  that  movement.  It  doesn't  matter  even  if  I 
never  finish  it,  I  don't  think  it  looks  bad  in  its 
present  state,  does  it  ? ' 

*  It  is  a  sketch,  one  of  those  things  that  could 
not  be  finished.  ...  I  recognise  the  model.  SAe 
sat  for  it,  didn't  she.?' 

'Yes.' 

'You  seem  very  intimate.  ,  .  .  She  seems  very 
devoted.' 

'  She  has  been  very  good  to  me.  .  .  .  Don't  say 
anything  against  her.  I've  nothing  to  conceal, 
Mildred.  It  is  an  old  story.  It  began  long  before 
I  knew  you.' 

*  And  continued  while  you  knew  me  ? ' 
'  Yes.' 


I06  CELIBATES. 

'And  you  never  told  me.  Oh,  Ralph,  while  you 
were  telling  me  you  loved  me  you  were  living  with 
this  woman.* 

*It  happened  so.  Things  don't  come  out  as 
straight  or  as  nice  as  we'd  like  them  to — that's 
the  way  things  come  out  in  life  —  a  bit  crooked, 
tangled,  cracked.  I  only  know  that  I  loved  you, 
I  couldn't  have  done  otherwise.  That's  the  way 
things  happened  to  come  out.  There's  no  other 
explanation.' 

'  And  if  I  had  consented  to  marry  you,  you'd  have 
put  her  away.' 

'  Mildred,  don't  scold  me.  Things  happened  that 
way.' 

Mildred  did  not  answer  and  Ralph  said  : 

'  What  are  you  thinking  of  ? ' 

*Of  the   cruelty,  of  the  wretchedness   of  it  all.' 

'Why  look  at  that  side  of  it.?  If  I  did  wrong,  I've 
been  punished.  She  knows  all.  She  has  forgiven 
me.  You  can  do  as  much .?  Forgive  me,  kiss  me. 
I've  never  kissed  you.' 

'  I  cannot  kiss  you  now.  I  hear  her  coming. 
Wipe  those  tears  away.  The  doctor  said  that  you 
were  to  be  kept  quiet' 

'Shall  I  see  you  again.?* 

*  I  don't  think  I  can  come  again.     She'll  be  here.' 

'Mildred!     What  difference  can  it  make?' 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  10/ 

'  We  shall  see.  .  .  .* 

The  door  opened.  Ellen  came  in,  and  Mildred 
got  up  to  go. 

'I  hope  you've  enjoyed  your  walk,  Miss  Gibbs.' 

'Yes,  thank  you.  I  haven't  been  out  for  some 
days.' 

'Nursing  is  very  fatiguing.  .  .  .  Good-bye,  Mr. 
Hoskin.  I  hope  I  shall  soon  hear  that  you're  better. 
Perhaps  Miss  Gibbs  will  write.' 

'Yes,  I'll  write,  but  I'm  afraid  Mr.  Hoskin  has 
been  talking  too  much.  .  .  .  Let  me  open  the  door 
for  you.' 


XII. 


When  she  got  home  she  went  to  her  room.  She 
took  off  her  dress  and  put  on  an  old  wrapper,  and 
then  lay  on  the  floor  and  cried.  She  could  not  cry 
in  a  pair  of  stays.  To  abandon  herself  wholly  to 
grief  she  must  have  her  figure  free. 

And  all  that  evening  she  hardly  spoke ;  she  lay 
back  in  her  chair,  her  soul  lost  in  one  of  her  most 
miserable  of  moods.  Harold  spoke  a  few  words 
from  time  to  time  so  that  she  should  not  perceive 
that  he  was  aware  of  her  depression. 

Her  novel  lay  on  her  knees  unread,  and  she  sat, 
her  eyes  fixed,  staring  into  the  heart  of  life.  She 
had  never  seen  so  far  into  life  before ;  she  was  look- 
ing into  the  heart  of  life,  which  is  death.  He  was 
about  to  die  —  he  had  loved  her  even  unto  death; 
he  had  loved  her  even  while  he  was  living  with  an- 
other woman.  As  she  sat  thinking,  her  novel  on 
her  knees,  she  could  see  that  other  woman  sitting 
by  his  death-bed.  Two  candles  were  burning  in  the 
vast  studio,  and  by  their  dim  light  she  saw  the 
shadow  of  the  profile  on  the  pillow.     She  thought 

io8 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  I09 

of  him  as  a  man  yearning  for  an  ideal  which  he 
could  never  attain,  and  dying  of  his  yearning  in  the 
end !  And  that  so  beautiful  and  so  holy  an  aspira- 
tion should  proceed  from  the  common  concubinage 
of  a  studio !  Suddenly  she  decided  that  Ralph  was 
not  worthy  of  her.  Her  instinct  had  told  her  from 
the  first  that  something  was  wrong.  She  had  never 
known  why  she  had  refused  him.     Now  she  knew. 

But  in  the  morning  she  was,  as  she  put  it  herself, 
better  able  to  see  things  from  a  man's  point  of  view, 
and  she  found  some  excuses  for  Ralph's  life.  This 
connection  had  been  contracted  long  ago.  .  .  . 
Ralph  had  had  to  earn  his  living  since  he  was  six- 
teen —  he  had  never  been  in  society ;  he  had  never 
known  nice  women :  the  only  women  he  had  known 
were  his  models  ;  what  was  he  to  do  ?  A  lonely  life 
in  a  studio,  his  meals  brought  in  from  the  public- 
house,  no  society  but  those  women.  .  ,  .  She  could 
understand.  ,  .  .  Nevertheless,  it  was  a  miserable 
thing  to  think  that  all  the  time  he  had  been  making 
love  to  her  he  had  been  living  with  that  woman.  *  He 
used  to  leave  her  to  come  to  meet  me  in  the  park.' 

This  was  a  great  bitterness.  She  thought  that 
she  hated  him.  But  hatred  was  inconsistent  with 
her  present  mood,  and  she  reflected  that,  after  all, 
Ralph  was  dying  for  love  of  her,  that  was  a  fact,  and 
behind  that  fact  it  were  not  wise  to  look.     No  man 


1 10  CELIBATES. 

could  do  more  than  die  for  the  woman  he  loved,  no 
man  could  prove  his  love  more  completely.  .  .  .  But 
it  was  so  sad  to  think  he  was  dying.  Could  nothing 
be  done  to  save  him }  Would  he  recover  if  she  were 
to  promise  to  be  his  wife  ?  She  need  not  carry  out 
her  promise  ;  she  didn't  know  if  she  could.  But  if 
a  promise  would  cure  him,  she  would  promise.  She 
would  go  as  far  as  that.  .  .  .  But  for  what  good  ? 
To  get  him  well  so  that  he  might  continue  living 
with  that  woman.  .  .  . 

If  he  hadn't  confessed,  if  she  hadn't  known  of  this 
shameful  connection,  if  it  hadn't  been  dragged  under 
her  eyes !  Ralph  might  have  spared  her  that.  If 
he  had  spared  her  that  she  felt  that  she  could 
promise  to  be  his  wife,  and  perhaps  to  keep  her 
promise,  for  in  the  end  she  supposed  she  would  have 
to  marry  some  one.  She  didn't  see  how  she  was 
going  to  escape.  .  .  .  Yes,  if  he  had  not  told  her,  or 
better  still,  if  he  had  not  proved  himself  unworthy 
of  her,  she  felt  she  would  have  been  capable  of 
the  sacrifice. 

She  had  been  to  see  him !  She  knew  that  she 
ought  not  to  have  gone.  Her  instinct  had  told  her 
not  to  go.  But  she  had  conquered  her  feeling.  If 
she  had  known  that  she  was  going  to  meet  that 
woman  she  would  not  have  gone.  Whenever  we 
allow  ourselves  to  be  led  by  our  better  feelings  we 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  Ill 

come  to  grief.  That  woman  hated  her;  she  knew 
she  did.  She  could  see  it  in  her  look.  She 
wouldn't  put  herself  in  such  a  false  position  again. 
...  A  moment  after  she  was  considering  if  she 
should  go  to  Ellen  and  propose  that  she,  Mildred, 
should  offer  to  marry  Ralph,  but  not  seriously,  only 
just  to  help  him  to  get  well.  If  the  plan  succeeded 
she  would  persuade  Ralph  that  his  duty  was  to 
marry  Ellen.  And  intoxicated  with  her  own  al- 
truism, Mildred's  thoughts  passed  on  and  she  imag- 
ined a  dozen  different  dramas,  in  every  one  of  which 
she  appeared  in  the  character  of  a  heroine. 

*  Mildred,  what  is  the  matter  ? ' 

'Nothing,  dear,  I've  only  forgotten  my  pocket- 
handkerchief.' 

How  irritating  were  Harold's  stupid  interruptions. 
She  had  to  ask  him  if  he  would  take  another  cup 
of  tea.  He  said  that  he  thought  he  would  just  have 
time.  He  had  still  five  minutes.  She  poured  out 
the  tea,  thinking  all  the  while  of  the  sick  man  lying 
on  his  poor  narrow  bed  in  the  corner  of  the  great 
studio.  It  was  shameful  that  he  should  die  ;  tears 
rose  to  her  eyes,  and  she  had  to  walk  across  the 
room  to  hide  them.  It  was  a  pitiful  story.  He  was 
dying  for  her,  and  she  wasn't  worth  it.  She  hadn't 
much  heart ;  she  knew  it,  perhaps  one  of  these  days 
she  would  meet  some  one  who  would  make  her  feel. 


112  CELIBATES. 

She  hoped  so,  she  wanted  to  feel.  She  wanted  to 
love ;  if  her  brother  were  to  die  to-morrow,  she 
didn't  believe  she  would  really  care.  It  was  ter- 
rible; if  people  only  knew  what  she  was  like  they 
would  look  the  other  way  when  she  passed  down  the 
street.  .  ,  .  But,  no,  all  this  was  morbid  nonsense ; 
she  was  overwrought,  and  nervous,  and  that  proved 
that  she  had  a  heart.     Perhaps  too  much  heart. 

In  the  next  few  days  Ralph  died  a  hundred  times, 
and  had  been  rescued  from  death  at  least  a  dozen 
times  by  Mildred ;  she  had  watched  by  his  bedside, 
she  had  even  visited  his  grave.  And  at  the  end  of 
each  dream  came  the  question  :  *  Would  he  live, 
would  he  die  ? '  At  last,  unable  to  bear  the  sus- 
pense any  longer,  she  went  to  the  National  Gallery 
to  obtain  news  of  him.  But  Miss  Brand  had  little 
news  of  him.  She  was  leaving  the  gallery,  and  the 
two  girls  went  for  a  little  walk.  Mildred  was  glad  of 
company,  anything  to  save  her  from  thinking  of 
Ralph,  and  she  laughed  and  talked  with  Nellie  on 
the  bridge  in  St.  James'  Park,  until  she  began  to 
feel  that  the  girl  must  think  her  very  heartless. 

*  How  pale  and  ill  you're  looking,  Mildred.' 

'Am  I.?     I  feel  all  right.' 

Nellie's  remark  delighted  Mildred,  '  Then  I  have 
a  heart,'  she  thought,  'I'm  not  so  unfeeling  as  I 
thought.'     , 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  II3 

The  girls  separated  at  Buckingham  Palace.  Mil- 
dred walked  a  little  way,  and  then  suddenly  called  a 
hansom  and  told  the  man  to  drive  to  Chelsea.  But 
he  had  not  driven  far  before  thoughts  of  the  woman 
he  was  living  with  obtruded  upon  her  pity,  and  she 
decided  that  it  would  be  unwise  for  her  to  venture 
on  a  second  visit.  The  emotion  of  seeing  her  again 
might  make  him  worse,  might  kill  him.  So  she 
poked  her  parasol  through  the  trap,  and  told  the 
cabby  to  drive  to  Victoria  Station.  There  she 
bought  some  violets,  she  kept  a  little  bunch  for 
herself,  and  sent  him  a  large  bouquet.  *  They'll  look 
nice  in  the  studio,'  she  said,  *  I  think  that  will  be 
best.' 

Two  days  after  she  received  a  letter  from  Ellen 
Gibbs. 

*  Madam,  —  It  is  my  sad  duty  to  inform  you  that  Mr.  Ralph 
Hoskin  died  this  afternoon  at  two  o'clock.  He  begged  me  to 
write  and  thank  you  for  the  violets  you  sent  him,  and  he  ex- 
pressed a  hope  that  you  would  come  and  see  him  when  he  was 
dead. 

*  The  funeral  will  take  place  on  Monday.  If  you  come  here 
to-morrow,  you  will  see  him  before  he  is  put  into  his  coffin.  —  I 
am,  yours  truly, 

'Ellen  Gibbs.' 

The  desire  to  see  her  dead  lover  was  an  instinct, 
and  the  journey  from  Sutton  to  Chelsea  was  un- 
perceived  by  her,  and  she  did  not  recover  from  the 


1 14  CELIBATES. 

febrile  obedience  her  desire  imposed  until  Ellen 
opened  the  studio  door. 

'  I  received  a  letter  from  you.  .  .  . ' 

'Yes,  I  know,  come  in.' 

Mildred  hated  the  plain  middle-class  appearance 
and  dress  of  this  girl.  She  hated  the  tone  of  her 
voice.  She  walked  straight  into  the  studio.  There 
was  a  sensation  of  judgment  in  the  white  profile, 
cold,  calm,  severe,  and  Mildred  drew  back  affrighted. 
But  she  recovered  a  little  when  she  saw  that  her 
violets  lay  under  the  dead  hand.  *  He  thought  of 
me  to  the  end.     I  forgive  him  everything.' 

As  she  stood  watching  the  dead  man,  she  could 
hear  Ellen  moving  in  the  passage.  She  did  not 
know  what  Ellen  knew  of  her  relations  with  Ralph. 
But  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  Ellen  was  aware 
that  they  were  of  an  intimate  nature.  She  hoped, 
hurriedly,  that  Ellen  did  not  suspect  her  of  being 
Ralph's  mistress,  and  listened  again,  wondering  if 
Ellen  would  come  into  the  studio.  Or  would  she 
have  the  tact  to  leave  her  alone  with  the  dead.^ 
If  she  did  come  in  it  would  be  rather  awkward. 
She  did  not  wish  to  appear  heartless  before  Ellen, 
but  tears  might  lead  Ellen  to  suspect.  As  Mildred 
knelt  down,  Ellen  entered.     Mildred  turned  round. 

*  Don't  let  me  disturb  you,'  said  Ellen,  '  when  you 
have  finished.* 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  II5 

*  Will  you  not  say  a  prayer  with  me  ? ' 

*  I  have  said  my  prayers.  Our  prayers  would  not 
mingle.' 

'What  does  she  mean.^'  thought  Mildred.  She 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  asked  herself 
what  Ellen  meant.  *  Our  prayers  would  not  mingle. 
Why  ?  Because  I'm  a  pure  woman,  and  she  isn't. 
I  wonder  if  she  meant  that.  I  hope  she  does  not 
intend  any  violence.  I  must  say  nothing  to  annoy 
her.'  Her  heart  throbbed  with  fear,  her  knees  trem- 
bled, she  thought  she  would  faint.  Then  it  occurred 
to  her  that  it  would  be  a  good  idea  to  faint.  Ellen 
would  have  to  carry  her  into  the  street,  and  in  the 
street  she  would  be  safe. 

And  resolved  to  faint  on  the  slightest  provocation 
she  rose  from  her  knees,  and  stood  facing  the  other 
woman,  whom  she  noticed,  with  some  farther  alarm, 
stood  between  her  and  the  door.  If  she  could  get 
out  of  this  difficulty  she  never  would  place  herself 
in  such  a  position  again.  .  .  .  Mildred  tried  to 
speak,  but  words  stuck  fast  in  her  throat,  and  it  was 
some  time  before  her  terror  allowed  her  to  notice 
that  the  expression  on  Ellen's  face  was  not  one  of 
anger,  but  of  resignation. 

She  was  safe. 

'She  has  pretty  eyes,'  thought  Mildred,  'a  weak, 
nervous  creature;  I  can  do  with  her  what  I   like. 


1 16  CELIBATES. 

...  If  she  thinks  that  she  can  get  the  better  of 
me,  I'll  very  soon  show  her  that  she  is  mistaken. 
Of  course,  if  it  came  to  violence,  I  could  do  nothing 
but  scream.     I'm  not  strong.' 

Then  Mildred  said  in  a  firm  voice  : 

'I'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  letter.  This 
is  very  sad,  I'll  send  some  more  flowers  for  the 
coffin.     Good  morning.' 

But  a  light  came  into  Ellen's  eyes,  which  Mildred 
did  not  like. 

'Well,'  she  said,  *I  hope  you're  satisfied.  He 
died  thinking  of  you.     I  hope  you're  satisfied.' 

*Mr.  Hoskin  and  I  were  intimate  friends.  It 
is  only  natural  that  he  should  think  of  me.' 

*  We  were  happy  until  you  came  .  .  .  you've 
made  dust  and  ashes  of  my  life.  Why  did  you 
take  the  trouble  to  do  this  ?  You  were  not  in 
love  with  him,  and  I  did  you  no  injury.' 

*I  didn't  know  of  your  existence  till  the  other 
day.     I  heard  that ' 

*  That  I  was  his  mistress.  Well,  so  I  was.  It 
appears  that  you  were  not.  But,  I  should  like  to 
know  which  of  us  two  is  the  most  virtuous,  which 
has  done  the  least  harm.  I  made  him  happy, 
you  killed  him.' 

'This  is  madness.' 

*No,  it  is  not  madness.  I  know  all  about  you, 
Ralph  told  me  everything.' 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  11/ 

*It  surprises  me  very  much  that  he  should 
have  spoken  about  me.  It  was  not  like  him.  I 
hope  that  he  didn't  tell  you,  that  he  didn't  suggest 
that  there  were  any  improper  relations  between 
me  and  him,' 

'I  daresay  that  you  were  virtuous,  more  or  less, 
as  far  as  your  own  body  is  concerned.  Faugh ! 
Women  like  you  make  virtue  seem  odious,' 

'I  cannot  discuss  such  questions  with  you,' 
Mildred  said  timidly,  and,  swinging  her  parasol 
vaguely,  she  tried  to  pass  Ellen  by.  But  it  was 
difficult  to  get  by.  The  picture  she  had  admired 
the  other  day  blocked  the  way.  Mildred's  eyes 
glanced  at  it  vindictively. 

'Yes,'  said  Ellen  in  her  sad  doleful  voice,  'You 
can  look  at  it.  I  sat  for  it.  I'm  not  ashamed, 
and  perhaps  I  did  more  good  by  sitting  for  it  than 
you'll  do  with  your  painting.  .  ,  .  But  look  at 
him  —  there  he  lies.  He  might  have  been  a  great 
artist  if  he  had  not  met  you  and  I  should  have 
been  a  happy  woman.  Now  I've  nothing  to  live 
for.  .  .  .  You  said  that  you  didn't  know  of  my 
existence  till  the  other  day.  But  you  knew  that, 
in  making  that  man  love  you,  you  were  robbing 
another  woman,' 

'That  is  very  subtle,' 

'You  knew  that  you  did  not  love  him,  and  that 


Il8  CELIBATES. 

it  could  end  only  in  unhappiness.  It  has  ended 
in  death.' 

Mildred  looked  at  the  cold  face,  so  claylike,  and 
trembled.  The  horror  of  the  situation  crept  over 
her;  she  had  no  strength  to  go,  and  listened 
meekly  to  Ellen. 

'  He  smiled  a  little,  it  was  a  little  sad  smile,  when 
he  told  me  that  I  was  to  write,  saying  that  he 
would  be  glad  if  you  would  come  to  see  him  when 
he  was  dead.  I  think  I  know  what  was  passing 
in  his  mind  —  he  hoped  that  his  death  might  be 
a  warning  to  you.  Not  many  men  die  of  broken 
hearts,  but  one  never  knows.  One  did.  Look  at 
him,  take  your  lesson.' 

*  I  assure  you  that  we  were  merely  friends.  He 
liked  me,  I  know  —  he  loved  me,  if  you  will ;  I  could 
not  help  that,'  Mildred  drew  on  the  floor  of  the 
studio  with  her  parasol.  *I  am  very  sorry,  it  is 
most  unfortunate.  I  did  nothing  wrong.  I'm  sure 
he  never  suggested ' 

'How  that  one  idea  does  run  in  your  head.  I 
wonder  if  your  thoughts  are  equally  chaste.' 

Mildred  did  not  answer. 

*I  read  you  in  the  first  glance,  one  glance  was 
enough,  your  eyes  tell  the  tale  of  your  cunning, 
mean  little  soul.      Perhaps  you  sometimes  try  to 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  1 19 

resist,  maybe  your  nature  turns  naturally  to  evil. 
There  are  people  like  that.' 

'  If  I  had  done  what  you  seem  to  think  I  ought 
to  have  done,  he  would  have  abandoned  you.'  And 
Mildred  looked  at  her  rival  triumphantly. 

'That  would  have  been  better  than  what  has 
happened.  Then  there  would  have  been  only  one 
heart  broken,  now  there  are  two.' 

Mildred  hated  the  woman  for  the  humiliation  she 
was  imposing  upon  her,  but  in  her  heart  she  could 
not  but  feel  admiration  for  such  single  heartedness. 
Noticing  on  Mildred's  face  the  change  of  expression, 
but  misinterpreting  it,  Ellen  said : 

*  I  can  read  you  through  and  through.  You  have 
wrecked  two  lives.  Oh,  that  any  one  should  be  so 
wicked,  that  any  one  should  delight  in  wickedness. 
I  cannot  understand.' 

*  You  are  accusing  me  wrongly.  .  .  .  But  let  me 
go.  It  is  not  likely  that  we  shall  arrive  at  any 
understanding.' 

*  Go  then,  you  came  to  gloat ;  you  have  gloated, 

go.' 

Ellen  threw  herself  on  a  chair  by  the  bedside. 
Her  head  fell  on  her  hands.  Mildred  whisked  her 
black  crape  dress  out  of  the  studio. 


XIII. 

It  was  not  until  the  spring  was  far  advanced  that 
the  nostalgia  of  the  boulevards  began  to  creep 
into  her  life.  Then,  without  intermission,  the  de- 
sire to  get  away  grew  more  persistent,  at  last  she 
could  think  of  nothing  else.  Harold  oppressed  her. 
But  Mrs.  Fargus  was  not  in  France,  she  could  not 
live  alone.     But  why  could  she  not  live  alone  } 

Although  she  asked  herself  this  question,  Mil- 
dred felt  that  she  could  not  live  alone  in  Paris. 
But  she  must  go  to  Paris !  but  with  whom  ?  Not 
with  Elsie  or  Cissy  —  they  both  had  studios  in 
London.  Moreover,  they  were  not  quite  the  girls 
she  would  like  to  live  with ;  they  were  very  well  as 
studio  friends.  Mildred  thought  she  might  hire 
a  chaperon ;  that  would  be  very  expensive !  And 
for  the  solution  of  her  difficulty  Mildred  sought 
in  vain  until  one  day,  in  the  National  Gallery,  Miss 
Brand  suggested  that  they  should  go  to  Paris 
together. 

Miss  Brand  had  told  Mildred  how  she  had  begun 
life  as  a  musician.     When  she  was  thirteen  she  had 

lao 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  121 

followed  Rubenstein  from  London  to  Birmingham, 
from  Birmingham  to  Manchester,  and  then  to  Liver- 
pool. Her  parents  did  not  know  what  had  become 
of  her.  Afterwards  she  studied  counterpoint  and 
harmony  with  Rubenstein  in  St.  Petersburg,  and  also 
with  Von  Bulow  in  Leipsic.  But  she  had  given  up 
music  for  journalism.  Her  specialty  was  musical 
criticism,  to  which,  having  been  thrown  a  good  deal 
with  artists,  she  had  added  art  criticism.  Mildred 
could  help  her  with  her  art  criticism.  .  .  .  She 
thought  they'd  get  on  very  well  together.  .  .  .  She 
would  willingly  share  the  expenses  of  a  little  flat. 

Mildred  was  fascinated  by  the  project ;  if  she  could 
possibly  get  Harold  to  agree.  .  .  .  He  must  agree. 
He  would  raise  many  objections.  But  that  did  not 
matter ;  she  was  determined.  And  at  the  end  of  the 
month  Mildred  and  Miss  Brand  left  for  Paris. 

They  had  decided  that  for  fifteen  hundred  or  two 
thousand  francs  a  year  they  could  find  an  apartment 
that  would  suit  them,  five  or  six  rooms  within  easy 
reach  of  the  studio,  and,  leaning  back  in  their  cab 
discussing  the  advantages  or  the  disadvantages  of 
the  apartment  they  had  seen,  they  grew  conscious  of 
their  intimacy  and  Mildred  rejoiced  in  the  freedom 
of  her  life.  Their  only  trouble  was  the  furnishing. 
Mildred  did  not  like  to  ask  Harold  for  any  more 
money,  and  credit  was  difficult  to  obtain.     But  even 


122  CELIBATES. 

this  difficulty  was  surmounted  :  and  they  found  an 
upholsterer  who  agreed  to  furnish  the  apartment 
they  had  taken  in  the  Rue  Hauteville  for  five  thou- 
sand francs,  payable  in  monthly  instalments.  To 
have  to  pay  five  hundred  francs  every  month  would 
keep  them  very  short  of  money  for  the  first  year,  but 
that  could  not  be  helped.  They  would  get  on  some- 
how; and  the  first  dinner  in  the  half-furnished 
dining-room,  with  the  white  porcelain  stove  in  the 
corner,  seemed  to  them  the  most  delicious  they  had 
ever  tasted.  Josephine,  their  servant,  was  certainly 
an  excellent  cook ;  and  so  obliging ;  they  could  find 
no  fault  with  her.  But  the  upholsterer  was  dilatory, 
and  days  elapsed  before  he  brought  the  chairs  that 
were  to  match  the  sofa ;  nearly  every  piece  of  dra- 
pery was  hung  separately,  and  they  had  given  up 
hope  of  the  ^tag^res  and  girondoles.  For  a  long 
while  a  grand  piano  was  their  principal  piece  of  fur- 
niture. Though  she  never  touched  it,  Miss  Brand 
could  not  live  without  a  grand  piano.  '  What's  the 
use  ? '  she'd  say.  '  I've  only  to  open  the  score  to 
remember  —  to  hear  Rubenstein  play  the  passage.' 

When  they  were  tout  d  fait  bien  instances,  they 
had  friends  to  dinner,  and  they  were  especially 
proud  of  M.  Daveau's  company.  Mildred  liked  this 
large,  stout  man.  There  was  something  strangely 
winning  in  his  manner;   a  mystery  seemed  to  sur- 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  1 23 

round  him,  and  it  was  impossible  not  to  wish  to 
penetrate  this  mystery.  Besides,  was  he  not  their 
master,  the  lord  of  the  studio  ?  Though  a  large, 
fat  man,  none  was  more  illusive,  more  difficult  to 
realise,  harder  to  get  on  terms  of  intimacy  with. 
These  were  temptations  which  appealed  to  Mildred 
and  she  had  determined  on  his  subduction.  But 
the  wily  Southerner  had  read  her  through.  Those 
little  brown  eyes  of  his  had  searched  the  bottom 
of  her  soul,  and,  with  pleasant  smiles  and  engag- 
ing courtesies,  he  had  answered  all  her  coquetries. 
But  the  difficulty  of  conquest  only  whetted  her 
appetite  for  victory,  and  she  might  even  have  pur- 
sued her  quest  with  ridiculous  attentions  if  accident 
had  not  made  known  to  her  the  fact  that  M.  Daveau 
was  not  only  the  lover  of  another  lady  in  the  studio, 
but  that  he  loved  her  to  the  perfect  exclusion  of 
every  other  woman.  Mildred's  face  darkened  be- 
tween the  eyes,  a  black  little  cloud  of  hatred 
appeared  and  settled  there.  She  invented  strange 
stories  about  M.  Daveau;  and  it  surprised  her  that 
M.  Daveau  took  no  notice  of  her  calumnies.  She 
desired  above  all  things  to  annoy  the  large  myste- 
rious Southerner  who  had  resisted  her  attractions, 
who  had  preferred  another,  and  who  now  seemed 
indifferent  to  anything  she  might  say  about  him. 
But    M.    Daveau   was   only   biding    his    time;    and 


124  CELIBATES. 

when  Mildred  came  to  renew  her  subscription  to 
the  studio,  he  told  her  that  he  was  very  sorry, 
but  that  he  could  not  accept  her  any  longer  as  a 
pupil.  Mildred  asked  for  a  reason.  M.  Daveau 
smiled  sweetly,  enigmatically,  and  answered,  that 
he  wished  to  reduce  the  number  of  ladies  in  his 
studio.     There  were  too  many. 

Expulsion  from  the  studio  made  shipwreck  of 
her  life  in  Paris.  There  was  no  room  in  the  fiat 
in  which  she  could  paint.  She  had  spent  all  her 
money,  and  could  not  afford  to  hire  a  studio.  She 
took  lessons  in  French  and  music,  and  began  a 
novel,  and  when  she  wearied  of  her  novel  she 
joined  another  studio,  a  ladies'  class.  But  Mildred 
did  not  like  women ;  the  admiration  of  men  was 
the  breath  of  her  nostrils.  With  a  difference,  men 
were  her  life  as  much  as  they  were  Elsie's.  She 
pined  in  this  new  studio ;  it  grew  hateful  to  her, 
and  she  spoke  of  returning  to  England. 

But  Miss  Brand  said  that  one  of  these  days  she 
would  meet  M.  Daveau ;  that  he  would  apologise  if  he 
had  offended  her,  and  that  all  would  be  made  right. 
For  Mildred  had  given  Miss  Brand  to  understand 
that  M.  Daveau  had  made  love  to  her;  then  she 
said  that  he  had  tried  to  kiss  her,  and  that  it 
would  be  unpleasant  for  her  to  meet  him  again. 
And  her  story  had  been  accepted  as  the  true  one 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  12$ 

by  the  American  and  English  girls ;  the  other 
students  had  assumed  that  Miss  Lawson  had  given 
up  painting  or  had  taken  a  holiday.  So  she 
had  got  herself  out  of  her  difficulty  very  cleverly. 
And  she  listened  complacently  to  Miss  Brand's 
advice.  There  was  something  in  what  Nellie  said. 
If  she  were  to  meet  M.  Daveau  she  felt  that  she 
could  talk  him  over.  But  she  did  not  know  if 
she  could  bring  herself  to  try  after  what  had  hap- 
pened. .  .  .  She  hated  him,  and  the  desire,  as  she 
put  it,  to  get  even  with  him  often  rose  up  in  her 
heart.  At  last  she  caught  sight  of  him  in  the 
Louvre.  He  was  looking  at  a  picture  on  the 
other  side  of  the  gallery,  and  she  crossed  over  so 
that  he  should  see  her.  He  bowed,  and  was 
about  to  pass  on ;  but  Mildred  insisted,  and,  re- 
sponding to  the  question  why  he  had  refused 
her  subscription,  he  said : 

'  I  think  I  told  you  at  the  time  that  I  found  my- 
self obliged  to  reduce  the  number  of  pupils.  But, 
tell  me,  are  you  copying  here .-' ' 

'One  doesn't  learn  anything  from  copying. 
Won't   you  allow  me  to  come  back  ? ' 

'  I  don't  see  how  I  can.  There  are  so  many 
ladies  at  present  in  the  studio.' 

'  I  hear  that  some  have  left  ?  .  .  .  Madlle.  Berge 
has  left,  hasn't  she  ? ' 


126  CELIBATES. 

'Yes,  she  has  left.' 

'  If  Madlle.  Barge  has  left,  there  is  no  reason  why 
I  should  not  return.' 

M.  Daveau  did  not  answer ;  he  smiled  satirically 
and  bade  her  good-bye.  Mildred  hated  him  more 
than  ever,  but  when  a  subscription  was  started  by 
the  pupils  to  present  him  with  a  testimonial  she  did 
not  neglect  to  subscribe.  The  presentation  took 
place  in  the  studio.  '  I  think  this  is  an  occasion  to 
forget  our  differences,'  he  said,  when  he  had  finished 
his  speech.  '  If  you  wish  to  return  you'll  find  my 
studio  open  to  you.'  And  to  show  that  he  wished  to 
let  bygones  be  bygones,  he  often  came  and  helped 
her  with  her  drawing ;  he  seemed  to  take  an  interest 
in  her ;  and  she  tried  to  lead  him  on.  But  one  day 
she  discovered  that  she  could  not  deceive  him,  and 
again  she  began  to  hate  him ;  but  remembering  the 
price  of  her  past  indiscretions  she  refrained,  and  the 
matter  was  forgotten  in  another  of  more  importance. 
Miss  Brand  suddenly  fell  out  of  health  and  was 
obliged  to  return  to  England. 

Then  the  little  flat  became  too  expensive  for 
Mildred  ;  she  let  it,  and  went  to  live  in  a  boarding- 
house  on  the  other  side  of  the  water,  where  Cissy 
was  staying.  But,  at  the  end  of  the  first  quarter, 
Mildred  thought  the  neighbourhood  did  not  suit  her, 
and  she  went  to  live  near  St.  Augustine,     She  re- 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  12/ 

mained  there  till  the  autumn,  till  Elsie  came  over, 
and  then  she  went  to  Elsie's  boarding-house.  Elsie 
returned  to  England  in  the  spring,  and  Mildred  wan- 
dered from  boarding-house  to  boarding-house.  She 
took  a  studio  and  spent  a  good  deal  of  money  on 
models,  frames,  and  costumes.  But  nothing  she  did 
satisfied  her,  and,  after  various  failures,  she  returned 
to  Daveau's,  convinced  that  she  must  improve  her 
drawing.  She  was,  moreover,  determined  to  put 
her  talent  to  the  test  of  severe  study.  She  got  to 
the  studio  every  morning  at  eight,  she  worked  there 
till  five.  As  she  did  not  know  how  to  employ  her 
evenings,  she  took  M.  Daveau's  advice  and  joined 
his  night-class. 

For  three  months  she  bore  the  strain  of  these  long 
days  easily ;  but  the  fourth  month  pressed  heavily 
upon  her,  and  in  the  fifth  month  she  was  a  mere 
mechanism.  She  counted  the  number  of  heads  more 
correctly  than  she  used  to,  she  was  more  familiar 
with  the  proportions  of  the  human  figure.  Alas ! 
her  drawing  was  no  better.  It  was  blacker,  harder, 
less  alive.  And  to  drag  her  weariness  all  the  way 
along  the  boulevards  seemed  impossible.  That  foul 
smelling  studio  repelled  her  from  afar,  the  prospect 
of  the  eternal  model  —  a  man  with  his  hand  on  his 
hip  —  a  woman  leaning  one  hand  on  a  stool,  fright- 
ened  her ;   and  her  blackened  drawing,  that  would 


128  CELIBATES. 

not  move  out  of  its  insipid  ugliness,  tempted  her  no 
more  with  false  hopes. 

Mildred  paused  in  her  dressing ;  it  seemed  that 
she  could  not  get  her  clothes  on.  She  had  to  sit 
down  to  rest.  Tears  welled  up  into  her  eyes ;  and, 
in  the  midst  of  much  mental  and  physical  weakness, 
the  maid  knocked  at  her  door  and  handed  her  a 
letter.     It  was  from  Elsie. 

'  Dearest  Mildred,  —  Here  we  are  again  in  Barbizon,  paint- 
ing in  the  day  and  dancing  in  the  evening.  There  are  a  nice 
lot  of  fellows  here,  one  or  two  very  clever  ones.  I  have  already 
picked  up  a  lot  of  hints.  How  we  did  waste  our  time  in  that 
studio.  Square  brush  work,  drawing  by  the  masses,  what  rot! 
I  suppose  you  have  abandoned  it  all  long  ago.  .  .  .  Cissy  is 
here,  she  has  thrown  over  Hopwood  Blunt  for  good  and  all. 
She  is  at  present  much  interested  in  a  division  of  the  tones  man. 
A  clever  fellow,  but  not  nearly  so  good-looking  as  mine.  The 
inn  stands  in  a  large  garden,  and  we  dine  and  walk  after  dinner 
under  the  trees,  and  watch  the  stars  come  out.  There's  a  fellow 
here  who  might  interest  you  —  his  painting  would,  even  if  he 
failed  to  respond  to  the  gentle  Platonism  of  your  flirtations. 
The  forest,  too,  would  interest  you.  It  is  an  immense  joy.  I'm 
sure  you  want  change  of  air  Life  here  is  very  cheap,  only  five 
francs,  room  and  meals  —  breakfast  and  dinner,  everything 
included  except  coffee.' 

Mildred  rejoiced  in  the  prospect  of  escape  from  the 
studio ;  and  her  life  quickened  at  the  thought  of  the 
inn  with  its  young  men,  its  new  ideas,  the  friends, 
the   open  air,   and   the  great   forest   that  Elsie  de- 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  1 29 

scribed  as  an  Immense  joy.  There  was  no  reason 
why  she  should  not  go  at  once,  that  very  day.  And 
the  knowledge  that  she  could  thus  peremptorily 
decide  her  life  was  in  itself  a  pleasure  which  she 
would  not  have  dispensed  with.  There  were  difficul- 
ties in  the  way  of  clothes,  she  wanted  some  summer 
dresses.  It  would  be  difficult  to  get  all  she  wanted 
before  four  o'clock.  She  would  have  to  get  the 
things  ready  made,  others  she  could  have  sent  after 
her.  Muslins,  trimmings,  hats,  stockings,  shoes,  and 
sunshades  occupied  Mildred  all  the  morning,  and  she 
only  just  got  to  the  Gare  de  Lyons  in  time  to  catch 
the  four  o'clock  train.  Elsie's  letter  gave  explicit 
directions,  she  was  not  to  go  to  Fontainebleau,  she 
was  to  book  to  Melun,  that  was  the  nearest  station, 
there  she  would  find  an  omnibus  waiting,  which 
would  take  her  to  Barbizon,  or,  if  she  did  not  mind 
the  expense,  she  could  take  a  fly  which  would  be 
pleasanter  and  quicker. 


XIV. 

A  FORMAL  avenue  of  trim  trees  led  out  of  the 
town  of  Melun.  But  these  were  soon  exchanged 
for  rough  forest  growths ;  and  out  of  cabbage  and 
corn  lands  the  irruptive  forest  broke  into  islands ; 
and  the  plain  was  girdled  with  a  dark  green  belt 
of  distant  forest. 

She  lay  back  in  the  fly  tasting  in  the  pure  air, 
the  keen  joy  of  returning  health,  and  she  thrilled  a 
little  at  the  delight  of  an  expensive  white  muslin 
and  a  black  sash  which  accentuated  the  smallness 
of  her  waist.  She  liked  her  little  brown  shoes  and 
brown  stockings  and  the  white  sunshade  through 
whose  strained  silk  the  red  sun  showed. 

At  the  cross  roads  she  noticed  a  still  more  for- 
mal avenue,  trees  planted  in  single  line  and  curving 
like  a  regiment  of  soldiers  marching  across  coun- 
try. The  whitewashed  stead  and  the  lonely  peasant 
scratching  like  an  insect  in  the  long  tilth  were  pain- 
ful impressions.  She  missed  the  familiar  hedge- 
rows which  make  England  like  a  garden ;  and  she 
noticed   that   there   were    trees   everywhere   except 

130 


MILDRED   LAWSON.     .  131 

about  the  dwellings ;  and  that  there  were  neither 
hollybush  or  sunflowers  in  the  white  village  they 
rolled  through  —  a  gaunt  white  village  which  was 
not  Barbizon.  The  driver  mentioned  the  name, 
but  Mildred  did  not  heed  him.  She  looked  from 
the  blank  white  walls  to  her  prettily  posed  feet 
and  heard  him  say  that  Barbizon  was  still  a  mile 
away. 

It  lay  at  the  end  of  the  plain,  and  when  the 
carriage  entered  the  long  street,  it  rocked  over 
huge  stones  so  that  Mildred  was  nearly  thrown 
out.  She  called  to  the  driver  to  go  slower;  he 
smiled,  and  pointing  with  his  whip  said  that  the 
hotel  that  Mademoiselle  wanted  was  at  the  end  of 
the  village,  on  the  verge  of  the  forest. 

A  few  moments  after  the  carriage  drew  up  before 
an  iron  gateway,  and  Mildred  saw  a  small  house  at 
the  bottojn  of  a  small  garden.  There  was  a  pavil- 
ion on  the  left  and  a  numerous  company  were  din- 
ing beneath  the  branches  of  a  cedar.  Elsie  and 
Cissy  got  up,  and  dropping  their  napkins  ran  to 
meet  their  friend.  She  was  led  in  triumph  to  the 
table,  and  all  through  dinner  she  had  a  rough  impres- 
sion of  English  girls  in  cheap  linen  dresses  and  of 
men  in  rough  suits  and  flowing  neck-ties. 

She  was  given  some  soup,  and  when  the  plate  of 
veal  had  been  handed  round,  and  Elsie  and  Cissy 


132  CELIBATES. 

had  exhausted  their  first  store  of  questions,  she 
was  introduced  to  Morton  Mitchell.  His  singularly 
small  head  was  higher  by  some  inches  than  any 
other,  bright  eyes,  and  white  teeth  showing  through 
a  red  moustache,  and  a  note  of  defiance  in  his  open- 
hearted  voice  made  him  attractive.  Mildred  was 
also  introduced  to  Rose  Turner,  the  girl  who  sat 
next  him,  a  weak  girl  with  pretty  eyes.  Rose 
already  looked  at  Mildred  as  if  she  anticipated 
rivalry,  and  was  clearly  jealous  of  every  word  that 
Morton  did  not  address  to  her.  Mildred  looked  at 
him  again.  He  was  better  dressed  than  the  others, 
and  an  air  of  success  in  his  face  made  him  seem 
younger  than  he  was.  He  leaned  across  the  table, 
and  Mildred  liked  his  brusque,  but  withal  well-bred 
manner.  She  wondered  what  his  pictures  were  like. 
At  Daveau's  only  the  names  of  the  principal  exhib- 
itors at  the  Salon  were  known,  and  he  had  told  her 
that  he  had  not  sent  there  for  the  last  three  years. 
He  didn't  care  to  send  to  the  vulgar  place  more 
than  he  could  help. 

Mildred  noticed  that  all  listened  to  Morton ;  and 
she  was  sorry  to  leave  the  table,  so  interesting  was 
his  conversation.  But  Elsie  and  Cissy  wanted  to 
talk  to  her,  and  they  marched  about  the  grass  plot, 
their  arms  about  each  other's  waists ;  and,  while 
questioning  Mildred   about   herself  and   telling   her 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  1 33 

about  themselves,  they  frequently  looked  whither 
their  lovers  sat  smoking.  Sometimes  Mildred  felt 
them  press  her  along  the  walk  which  passed  by  the 
dining  table.  But  for  half  an  hour  their  attractions 
were  arrayed  vainly  against  those  of  cigarettes  and 
petits  verves.  Rose  was  the  only  woman  who  re- 
mained at  table.  She  hung  over  her  lover,  desirous 
that  he  should  listen  to  her.  Mildred  thought, 
'What  a  fool.  .  .  .     We  shall  see  presently.' 

The  moment  the  young  men  got  up  Cissy  and 
Elsie  forgot  Mildred.  An  angry  expression  came 
upon  her  face  and  she  went  into  the  house.  The 
walls  had  been  painted  all  over — landscapes,  still 
life,  nude  figures,  rustic,  and  elegiac  subjects.  Every 
artist  had  painted  something  in  memory  of  his  visit, 
and  Mildred  sought  vaguely  for  what  Mr.  Mitchell 
had  painted.  Then,  remembering  that  he  had 
chosen  to  walk  about  with  the  Turner  girl,  she 
abandoned  her  search  and,  leaning  on  the  window- 
sill,  watched  the  light  fading  in  the  garden.  She 
could  hear  the  frogs  in  a  distant  pond,  and  thought 
of  the  night  in  the  forest  amid  miUions  of  trees 
and  stars. 

Suddenly  she  heard  some  one  behind  her  say : 

'Do  you  like  being  alone?' 

It  was  Morton. 

'I'm  so  used  to  being  alone.' 


134  CELIBATES. 

*  Use  is  a  second  nature,  I  will  not  interrupt  your 
solitude,' 

'But  sometimes  one  gets  tired  of  solitude.' 

*  Would  you  like  to  share  your  solitude .'  You 
can  have  half  of  mine.' 

*  I'm   sure  it  is  very  kind  of  you,  but '     It 

was  on  Mildred's  tongue  to  ask  him  what  he  had 
done  with  Rose  Turner.  She  said  instead,  'and 
where  does  your  solitude  hang  out .-' ' 

'  Chiefly  in  the  forest.     Shall  we  go  there  ? ' 

*  Is  it  far  ?  I  don't  know  where  the  others  have 
gone.' 

*  They're  in  the  forest,  we  walk  there  every  even- 
ing ;  we  shall  meet  them.' 

*  How  far  is  the  forest  ?  * 

'At  our  door.  We're  in  the  forest.  Come  and 
see.  There  is  the  forest,'  he  said,  pointing  to  a  long 
avenue.  '  How  bright  the  moonlight  is,  one  can  read 
by  this  light.' 

'And  how  wonderfully  the  shadows  of  the  tall 
trunks  fall  across  the  white  road.  How  unreal,  how 
phantasmal,  is  that  grey  avenue  shimmering  in  the 
moonlight.' 

'Yes,  isn't  the  forest  ghostlike.  And  isn't  that 
picturesque,'  he  said,  pointing  to  a  booth  that  had 
been  set  up  by  the  wayside.  On  a  tiny  stage  a  foot 
or  so  from  the  ground,  by  the  light  of  a  lantern  and 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  1 35 

a  few  candle  ends,  a  man  and  a  woman  were  acting 
some  rude  improvisation. 

Morton  and  Mildred  stayed ;  but  neither  was  in 
the  mood  to  listen.  They  contributed  a  trifle  each 
to  these  poor  mummers  of  the  lane's  end,  and  it 
seemed  that  their  charity  had  advanced  them  in 
their  intimacy.  Without  hesitation  they  left  the 
road,  taking  a  sandy  path  which  led  through  some 
rocks.  Mildred's  feet  sank  in  the  loose  sand,  and 
very  soon  it  seemed  to  her  that  they  had  left  Bar- 
bizon  far  behind.  For  the  great  grey  rocks  and  the 
dismantled  tree  trunk  which  they  had  suddenly  come 
upon  frightened  her ;  and  she  could  hardly  bear  with 
the  ghostly  appearance  the  forest  took  in  the  stream 
of  glittering  light  which  flowed  down  from  the  moon. 

She  wished  to  turn  back.  But  Morton  said  that 
they  would  meet  the  others  beyond  the  hill,  and  she 
followed  him  through  great  rocks,  filled  with  strange 
shadows.  The  pines  stood  round  the  hill-top  making 
it  seem  like  a  shrine ;  a  round  yellow  moon  looked 
through ;  there  was  the  awe  of  death  in  the  lurid 
silence,  and  so  clear  was  the  sky  that  the  points  of 
the  needles  could  be  seen  upon  it. 

'We  must  go  back,'  she  said. 

'If  you  like.' 

But,  at  that  moment,  voices  were  heard  coming 
over  the  brow  of  the  hill. 


136  CELIBATES. 

*  You  see  I  did  not  deceive  you.  There  are  your 
friends,  I  knew  we  should  meet  them.  That  is 
Miss  Laurence's  voice,  one  can  always  recognise 
it.' 

*  Then  let  us  go  to  them.' 

*  If  you  like.  But  we  can  talk  better  here.  Let 
me  find  you  a  place  to  sit  down.' 

Before  Mildred  could  answer,  Elsie  cried  across 
the  glade : 

'So  there  you  are.' 

'  What  do  you  think  of  the  forest  ?  *  shouted 
Cissy. 

'Wonderful,'  replied  Mildred. 

'Well,  we  won't  disturb  you  ...  we  shall  be 
back  presently,' 

And,  like  ghosts,  they  passed  into  the  shadow 
and  mystery  of  the  trees. 

'  So  you  work  in  the  men's  studio  ? ' 

'  Does  that  shock  you  .-' ' 

'  No,  nothing  shocks  me.' 

*  In  the  studio  a  woman  puts  off  her  sex. 
There's  no  sex  in  art.' 

'I  quite  agree  with  you.  There's  no  sex  in  art, 
and  a  woman  would  be  very  foolish  to  let  any- 
thing stand  between  her  and  her  art.' 

'  I'm  glad  you  think  that.  I've  made  great  sac- 
rifices for  painting.' 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  137 

*  What  sacrifices  ? ' 

*  I'll  tell  you  one  of  these  days  when  I  know  you 
better.' 

'Will  you?' 

The  conversation  paused  a  moment,  and  Mildred 
said  : 

*  How  wonderful  it  is  here.  Those  pines,  that 
sky,  one  hears  the  silence;  it  enters  into  one's 
very  bones.     It  is  a  pity  one  cannot  paint  silence.' 

*  Millet  painted  silence.  "  The  Angelus  "  is  full 
of  silence,  the  air  trembles  with  silence  and  sunset.' 

'But  the  silence  of  the  moonlight  is  more  awful, 
it  really  is  very  awful,  I'm  afraid.' 

'  Afraid  of  what  ?  there's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of. 
You  asked  me  just  now  if  I  believed  in  Daveau's, 
I  didn't  like  to  say;  I  had  only  just  been  intro- 
duced to  you ;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  I  know  you 
better  now  .  .  .  Daveau's  is  a  curse.  It  is  the 
sterilisation  of  art.  You  must  give  up  Daveau's, 
and  come  and  work  here.' 

*  I'm  afraid  it  would  make  no  difference.  Elsie 
and  Cissy  have  spent  years  here,  and  what  they  do 
does  not  amount  to  much.  They  wander  from 
method  to  method,  abandoning  each  in  turn.  I 
am  utterly  discouraged,  and  made  up  my  mind  to 
give  up  painting.' 

'  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? ' 


138  CELIBATES. 

•  I  don't  know.  One  of  these  days  I  shall  find 
out  my  true  vocation.' 

'You're  young,  you  are  beautiful * 

'  No,  I'm  not  beautiful,  but  there  are  times  when 
I  look  nice.' 

'  Yes,  indeed  there  are.  Those  hands,  how  white 
they  are  in  the  moonlight.*  He  took  her  hands. 
'Why  do  you  trouble  and  rack  your  soul  about 
painting }  A  woman's  hands  are  too  beautiful  for 
a  palette  and  brushes.' 

The  words  were  on  her  tongue  to  ask  him  if  he 
did  not  admire  Rose's  hands  equally,  but  remem- 
bering the  place,  the  hour,  and  the  fact  of  her 
having  made  his  acquaintance  only  a  few  hours 
before,  she  thought  it  more  becoming  to  withdraw 
her  hands,  and  to  say: 

'The  others  do  not  seem  to  be  coming  back. 
We  had  better  return.' 

They  moved  out  of  the  shadows  of  the  pines, 
and  stood  looking  down  the  sandy  pathway. 

'How  filmy  and  grey  those  top  branches,  did 
you  ever  see  anything  so  delicate  ? ' 

'I  never  saw  anything  like  this  before.  This  is 
primeval.  ...  I  used  to  walk  a  good  deal  with  a 
friend  of  mine  in  St.  James'  Park.' 

'The  park  where  the  ducks  are,  and  a  little 
bridge.    Your  friend  was  not  an  artist.* 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  1 39 

'Yes,  he  was,  and  a  very  clever  artist  too.* 

*  Then  he  admired  the  park  because  you  were  with 
him.' 

'  Perhaps  that  had  something  to  do  with  it.  But 
the  park  is  very  beautiful' 

'  I  don't  think  I  care  much  about  cultivated 
nature.' 

*  Don't  you  like  a  garden  ? ' 

*  Yes  ;  a  disordered  garden,  a  garden  that  has 
been  let  run  wild.' 

They  walked  down  the  sandy  pathway,  and  came 
unexpectedly  upon  Elsie  and  her  lover  sitting  behind 
a  rock.  They  asked  where  the  others  were.  Elsie 
did  not  know.  But  at  that  moment  voices  were 
heard,  and  Cissy  cried  from  the  bottom  of  the  glade  : 

'  So  there  you  are  ;  we've  been  looking  for  you.' 

*  Looking  for  us  indeed,'  said  Mildred. 

*  Now,  Mildred,  don't  be  prudish,  this  is  Liberty 
Hall.  You  must  lend  us  Mr.  Mitchell,  we  want  to 
dance.' 

*  What,  here  in  the  sand ! ' 

'No,  in  the  Salon.  .  .  .  Come  along,  Rose  will 
play  for  us.' 


XV. 


Mildred  was  the  first  down.  She  wore  a  pretty 
robe  d  Jleurs,  and  her  straw  hat  was  trimmed  with 
tremulous  grasses  and  cornflowers.  A  faint  sun- 
shine floated  in  the  wet  garden. 

A  moment  after  Elsie  cried  from  the  door-step : 

*  Well,  you  have  got  yourself  up.  We  don't  run 
to  anything  like  that  here.  You're  going  out  flirt- 
ing.    It's  easy  to  see  that.' 

'My  flirtations  don't  amount  to  much.  Kisses 
don't  thrill  me  as  they  do  you.  I'm  afraid  I've 
never  been  what  you  call  "  in  love." ' 

'You  seem  on  the  way  there,  if  I'm  to  judge  by 
last  night,'  Elsie  answered  rather  tartly.  '  You  know, 
Mildred,  I  don't  believe  all  you  say,  not  quite  all.' 

A  pained  and  perplexed  expression  came  upon 
Mildred's  face  and  she  said : 

'Perhaps  I  shall  meet  a  man  one  of  these  days 
who  will  inspire  passion  in  me.' 

'  I  hope  so.  It  would  be  a  relief  to  all  of  us.  I 
wouldn't  mind  subscribing  to  present  that  man  with 
a  testimonial.' 

140 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  I4I 

Mildred  laughed. 

'  I  often  wonder  what  will  become  of  me.  I've 
changed  a  good  deal  in  the  last  two  years.  I've  had 
a  great  deal  of  trouble.' 

'I'm  sorry  you're  so  depressed.  I  know  what  it 
is.  That  wretched  painting,  we  give  ourselves  to  it 
heart  and  soul,  and  it  deceives  us  as  you  deceive 
your  lovers.* 

'  So  it  does.  I  had  not  thought  of  it  like  that. 
Yes,  I've  been  deceived  just  as  I  have  deceived 
others.  But  you,  Elsie,  you've  not  been  deceived, 
you  can  do  something.  If  I  could  do  what  you  do. 
You  had  a  picture  in  the  Salon.  Cissy  had  a  picture 
in  the  Salon.' 

'That  doesn't  mean  much.  What  we  do  doesn't 
amount  to  much.' 

'  But  do  you  think  that  I  shall  ever  do  as  much  ? ' 

Elsie  did  not  think  so,  and  the  doubt  caused  her 
to  hesitate.  Mildred  perceived  the  hesitation  and 
said : 

'  Oh,  there's  no  necessity  for  you  to  lie.  I  know 
the  truth  well  enough.  I  have  resolved  to  give  up 
painting.     I  have  given  it  up.' 

*  You've  given  up  painting !  Do  you  really  mean 
it.?' 

'  Yes,  I  feel  that  I  must.  When  I  got  your  letter 
I  was   nearly  dead   with  weariness  and  disappoint- 


142  CELIBATES. 

ment  —  what  a  relief  your  letter  was  —  what  a  relief 
to  be  here ! ' 

'Well,  you  see  something  has  happened.  Bar- 
bizon  has  happened,  Morton  has  happened.' 

'I  wonder  if  anything  will  come  of  it.  He's  a 
nice  fellow.     I  like  him.' 

'You're  not  the  first.  All  the  women  are  crazy 
about  him.  He  was  the  lover  of  M6rac,  the  actress 
of  the  Franqais.  They  say  she  could  only  play 
Ph^dre  when  he  was  in  the  stage-box.  He  always 
produced  that  effect  upon  her.     Then  he  was  the 

lover  of  the  Marquise  de  la  —  de  la  Per 1  can't 

remember  the  name.' 

*  Is  he  in  love  with  any  one  now  "i ' 

'  No ;  we  thought  he  was  going  to  marry  Rose.' 

'That  little  thing!' 

'Well,  he  seemed  devoted  to  her.  He  seemed 
inclined  to  settle  down.' 

'  Did  he  ever  flirt  with  you  ? ' 

'No;  he's  not  my  style.' 

*I  know  what  that  means,'  thought  Mildred. 

The  conversation  paused,  and  then  Elsie  said  : 

'It  really  is  a  shame  to  upset  him  with  Rose, 
unless  you  mean  to  marry  him.  Even  the  impres- 
sionists admit  that  he  has  talent.  He  belongs  to 
the  old  school,  it  is  true,  but  his  work  is  interesting 
all  the  same.' 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  I43 

The  English  and  American  girls  were  dressed 
like  Elsie  and  Cissy  in  cheap  linen  dresses ;  one 
of  the  French  artists  was  living  with  a  cocotte. 
She  was  dressed  more  elaborately ;  somewhat  like 
Mildred,  Elsie  remarked,  and  the  girls  laughed,  and 
sat  down  to  their  bowls  of  coffee. 

Morton  and  Elsie's  young  man  were  almost  the 
last  to  arrive.  Swinging  their  paint-boxes  they 
came  forward  talking  gaily. 

'Yours  is  the  best  looking,'  said  Elsie. 

*  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  get  him  from  me.* 

'No,  I  never  do  that' 

'What  about  Rose.?' 

Mildred  bit  her  lips,  and  Elsie  couldn't  help 
thinking,  '  How  cruel  she  is,  she  likes  to  make  that 
poor  little  thing  miserable.  It's  only  vanity,  for 
I  don't  suppose  she  cares  for  Morton.' 

Those  who  were  painting  in  the  adjoining  fields 
and  forest  said  they  would  be  back  to  the  second 
breakfast  at  noon,  those  who  were  going  further, 
and  whose  convenience  it  did  not  suit  to  return, 
took  sandwiches  with  them.  Morton  was  talking 
to  Rose,  but  Mildred  soon  got  his  attention. 

'You're  going  to  paint  in  the  forest,'  she  said, 
*  I  wonder  what  your  picture  is  like :  you  haven't 
shown  it  to  me.' 

'It's  all  packed  up.     But  aren't   you  going  into 


144  CELIBATES. 

the  forest  ?  If  you're  going  with  Miss  Laurence  and 
Miss  Clive  you  might  come  with  me.  You'd  better 
take  your  painting  materials ;  you'll  find  the  time 
hang  heavily,  if  you  don't.' 

*Oh  no,  the  very  thought  of  painting  bores  me,' 

'Very  well  then.  If  you  are  ready  we  might 
make  a  start,  mine  is  a  mid-day  effect.  I  hope 
you're  a  good  walker.  But  you'll  never  be  able 
to  get  along  in  those  shoes  and  that  dress  —  that's 
no  dress  for  the  forest.  You've  dressed  as  if  for  a 
garden-party.' 

*  It  is  only  a  little  rohe  d  fleurs,  there's  nothing  to 
spoil,  and  as  for  my  shoes,  you'll  see  I  shall  get 
along  all  right,  unless  it  is  very  far.' 

'It  is  more  than  a  mile.  I  shall  have  to  take 
you  down  to  the  local  cobbler  and  get  you  meas- 
ured.    I  never  saw  such  feet.' 

He  was  oddly  matter  of  fact.  There  was  some- 
thing naive  and  childish  about  him,  and  he  amused 
and  interested  Mildred. 

'With  whom,'  she  said,  'do  you  go  out  painting 
when  I'm  not  here.'  Every  Jack  seems  to  have 
his  own  Jill  in  Barbizon.' 

'And  don't  they  everywhere  else.'  It  would  be 
damned  dull  without.' 

*Do  you  think  it  would?  Have  you  always  got 
a  Jill.?' 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  I45 

'I've  been  down  in  my  luck  lately.* 
Mildred  laughed. 

*  Which  of  the  women  here  has  the  most  talent  ? ' 
'Perhaps   Miss  Laurence.     But  Miss  Clive   does 

a  nice  thing  occasionally.' 

'What  do  you  think  of  Miss  Turner's  work.^' 

*  It's  pretty  good.  She  has  talent.  She  had  two 
pictures  in  the  Salon  last  year.' 

Mildred  bit  her  lips.  'Have  you  ever  been  out 
with  her.?' 

*  Yes,  but  why  do  you  ask  ? ' 

'  Because  I  think  she  likes  you.  She  looked  very 
miserable  when  she  heard  that  we  were  going  out 
together.  Just  as  if  she  were  going  to  cry.  If  I 
thought  I  was  making  another  person  unhappy 
I  would  sooner  give  you — give  up  the  pleasure  of 
going  out  with  you.' 

'And  what  about  me.^*  Don't  I  count  for  any- 
thing > ' 

*  I  must  not  do  a  direct  wrong  to  another.  Each 
of  us  has  a  path  to  walk  in,  and  if  we  deviate  from 
our  path  we  bring  unhappiness  upon  ourselves  and 
upon  others.' 

Morton  stopped  and  looked  at  her,  his  stolid 
childish  stare  made  her  laugh,  and  it  made  her 
like  him. 

'I  wonder  if  I  am  selfish?'  sdd  Mildred  refiec- 


146  CELIBATES. 

lively.  'Sometimes  I  think  I  am,  sometimes  I  think 
I  am  not.  I've  suffered  so  much,  my  life  has  been 
all  suffering.  There's  no  heart  left  in  me  for  any- 
thing. I  wonder  what  will  become  of  me.  I  often 
think  I  shall  commit  suicide.  Or  I  might  go  into 
a  convent.' 

'  You'd  much  better  commit  suicide  than  go  into  a 
convent.  Those  poor  devils  of  nuns !  as  if  there 
wasn't  enough  misery  in  this  world.  We  are  certain 
of  the  misery,  and  if  we  give  up  the  pleasures,  I 
should  like  to  know  where  we  are.' 

Each  had  been  so  interested  in  the  other  that 
they  had  seen  nothing  else.  But  now  the  road  led 
through  an  open  space  where  every  tree  was  torn 
and  broken ;  Mildred  stopped  to  wonder  at  the 
splintered  trunks ;  and  out  of  the  charred  spectre 
of  a  great  oak  crows  flew  and  settled  among  the 
rocks,  in  the  fissures  of  a  rocky  hill. 

'But  you're  not  going  to  ask  me  to  climb  those 
rocks,'  said  Mildred.  'There  are  miles  and  miles  of 
rocks.     It  is  like  a  landscape  by  Salvator  Rosa.' 

'  Climb  that  hill !  you  couldn't.  I'll  wait  until  our 
cobbler  has  made  you  a  pair  of  boots.  But  isn't  that 
desolate  region  of  blasted  oaks  and  sundered  rocks 
wonderful  ?  You  find  everything  in  the  forest.  In  a 
few  minutes  I  shall  show  you  some  lovely  under- 
wood.' 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  1 4/ 

And  they  had  walked  a  very  little  way  when  he 
stopped  and  said:  'Don't  you  call  that  beautiful?' 
and,  leaning  against  the  same  tree,  Morton  and  Mil- 
dred looked  into  the  dreamy  depth  of  a  summer  wood. 
The  trunks  of  the  young  elms  rose  straight,  and 
through  the  pale  leafage  the  sunlight  quivered,  full 
of  the  impulse  of  the  morning.  The  ground  was 
thick  with  grass  and  young  shoots.  .  .  .  Something 
ran  through  the  grass,  paused,  and  then  ran  again. 

'What  is  that.?'  Mildred  asked. 

'  A  squirrel,  I  think  .  .  .  yes,  he's  going  up  that 
tree.' 

'  How  pretty  he  is,  his  paws  set  against  the  bark.' 

*  Come  this  way  and  we  shall  see  him  better.' 

But  they  caught  no  further  sight  of  the  squirrel, 
and  Morton  asked  Mildred  the  time. 

*  A  quarter-past  ten,'  she  said,  glancing  at  the  tiny 
watch  which  she  wore  in  a  bracelet. 

'Then  we  must  be  moving  on.  I  ought  to  be  at 
work  at  half-past.  One  can't  work  more  than  a 
couple  of  hours  in  this  light.' 

They  passed  out  of  the  wood  and  crossed  an  open 
space  where  rough  grass  grew  in  patches.  Mildred 
opened  her  parasol,  ' 

'You  asked  me  just  now  if  I  ever  went  to  Eng- 
land. Do  you  intend  to  go  back,  or  do  you  intend 
to  live  in  France?' 


148  CELIBATES. 

'That's  my  difficulty.  So  long  as  I  was  painting 
there  was  a  reason  for  my  remaining  in  France,  now 
that  I've  given  it  up ' 

'But  you've  not  given  it  up.' 

'  Yes,  I  have.  If  I  don't  find  something  else  to  do 
I  suppose  I  must  go  back.  That's  what  I  dread. 
We  live  in  Sutton.  But  that  conveys  no  idea  to  your 
mind,  Sutton  is  a  little  town  in  Surrey.  It  was 
very  nice  once,  but  now  it  is  little  better  than  a 
London  suburb.  My  brother  is  a  distiller.  He  goes 
to  town  every  day  by  the  ten  minutes  past  nine  and 
he  returns  by  the  six  o'clock.  I've  heard  of  nothing 
but  those  two  trains  all  my  life.  We  have  ten  acres 
of  ground  —  gardens,  greenhouses,  and  a  number 
of  servants.  Then  there's  the  cart  —  I  go  out  for 
drives  in  the  cart.  We  have  tennis  parties  —  the 
neighbours,  you  know,  and  I  shall  have  to  choose 
whether  I  shall  look  after  ray  brother's  house,  or 
marry  and  look  after  my  husband's.* 

*  It  must  be  very  lonely  in  Sutton.' 

'Yes,  it  is  very  lonely.  There  are  a  number  of 
people  about,  but  I've  no  friends  that  I  care  about. 
There's  Mrs.  Fargus.' 

'Who's  Mrs.  Fargus.?' 

*  Oh,  you  should  see  Mrs.  Fargus,  she  reads 
Comte,  and  has  worn  the  same  dinner  dress  ever 
since  I   knew  her  —  a  black  satin  with  a  crimson 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  I49 

scarf.  Her  husband  suffers  from  asthma,  and  speaks 
of  his  wife  as  a  very  clever  woman.  He  wears  an 
eyeglass  and  she  wears  spectacles.  Does  that  give 
you  an  idea  of  my  friends.?' 

*  I  should  think  it  did.  What  damned  bores  they 
must  be.' 

*  He  bores  me,  she  doesn't.  I  owe  a  good  deal  to 
Mrs.  Fargus.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  her  I  shouldn't 
be  here  now.' 

*  What  do  you  mean  ? ' 

They  again  passed  out  of  the  sunlight  into  the 
green  shade  of  some  beech  trees.  Mildred  closed 
her  parasol,  and  swaying  it  to  and  fro  amid  the 
ferns  she  continued  in  a  low  laughing  voice  her 
tale  of  Mrs.  Fargus  and  the  influence  that  this 
lady  had  exercised  upon  her.  Her  words  floated 
along  a  current  of  quiet  humour  cadenced  by  the 
gentle  swaying  of  her  parasol,  and  brought  into 
relief  by  a  certain  intentness  of  manner  which  was 
peculiar  to  her.  And  gradually  Morton  became 
more  and  more  conscious  of  her,  the  charm  of  her 
voice  stole  upon  him,  and  once  he  lingered,  allow- 
ing her  to  get  a  few  yards  in  front  so  that  he 
might  notice  the  quiet  figure,  a  little  demure,  and 
intensely  itself,  in  a  yellow  gown.  When  he  first 
saw  her  she  had  seemed  to  him  a  little  sedate, 
even  a  little  dowdy,  and  when  she  had  spoken  of 


I50  CELIBATES. 

her  intention  to  abandon  painting,  although  her 
manner  was  far  from  cheerless,  he  had  feared  a 
bore.  He  now  perceived  that  this  she  at  least 
was  not  —  moreover,  her  determination  to  paint  no 
more  announced  an  excellent  sense  of  the  realities 
of  things  in  which  the  other  women  —  the  Elsies 
and  the  Cissys  —  seemed  to  him  to  be  strangely 
deficient.  And  when  he  set  up  his  easel  her  appre- 
ciation of  his  work  helped  him  to  further  apprecia- 
tion of  her.  He  had  spread  the  rug  for  her  in  a 
shady  place,  but  for  the  present  she  preferred  to 
stand  behind  him,  her  parasol  slanted  slightly,  talk- 
ing, he  thought  very  well,  of  the  art  of  the  great 
men  who  had  made  Barbizon  rememberable.  And 
the  light  tone  of  banter  in  which  she  now  admitted 
her  failure  seemed  to  Morton  to  be  just  the  tone 
which  she  should  adopt,  and  her  ridicule  of  the  im- 
pressionists and,  above  all,  of  the  dottists  amused 
him. 

•  I  don't  know  why  they  come  here  at  all,'  he  said, 
'unless  it  be  to  prove  to  themselves  that  nature 
falls  far  short  of  their  pictures.  I  wonder  why 
they  come  here.^  They  could  paint  their  gummy 
tfipestry  stuff  anywhere.' 

*I  can  imagine  your  asking  them  what  they 
thought  of  Corot.  Their  faces  would  assume  a 
puzzled    expression,    I    can    see    them    scratching 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  151 

their  heads  reflectively;  at  last  one  of  them  would 
say: 

* "  Yes,  there  is  Chose  who  lives  behind  the  Odeon 
—  he  admires  Corot.  Pas  de  blague,  he  really  does." 
Then  all  the  others  in  chorus  :  "  he  really  does 
admire  Corot;  we'll  bring  him  to  see  you  next 
Tuesday." ' 

Morton  laughed  loudly,  Mildred  laughed  quietly, 
and  there  was  an  intense  intimacy  of  enjoyment 
in  her  laughter. 

'  I  can  see  them,'  she  said,  *  bringing  Chose,  le 
petit  Chose,  who  lives  behind  the  Odeon  and  admires 
Corot,  to  see  you,  bringing  him,  you  know,  as  a 
sort  of  strange  survival,  a  curious  relic.  It  really 
is  very  funny.' 

He  was  sorry  when  she  said  the  sun  was  getting 
too  hot  for  her,  and  she  went  and  lay  on  the  rug 
he  had  spread  for  her  in  the  shade  of  the  oak. 
She  had  brought  a  book  to  read,  but  she  only  read 
a  line  here  and  there.  Her  thoughts  followed  the 
white  clouds  for  a  while,  and  then  she  admired  the 
man  sitting  easily  on  his  camp-stool,  his  long  legs 
wide  apart.  His  small  head,  his  big  hat,  the  line 
of  his  bent  back  amused  and  interested  her ;  she 
liked  his  abrupt  speech,  and  wondered  if  she  could 
love  him.  A  couple  of  peasant  women  came  by, 
bent   under  the  weight   of    the    faggots    they   had 


152  CELIBATES. 

picked,  and  Mildred  could  see  that  Morton  was 
watching  the  movement  of  these  women,  and  she 
thought  how  well  they  would  come  into  the  picture 
he  was  painting. 

Soon  after  he  rose  from  his  easel  and  walked 
towards  her. 

*  Have  you  finished  ? '  she  said. 

*No,  not  quite,  but  the  light  has  changed.  I 
cannot  go  on  any  more  to-day.  One  can't  work  in 
the  sunlight  above  an  hour  and  a  half.' 

'You've  been  working  longer  than  that.' 

'  But  haven't  touched  the  effect.  I've  been  paint- 
ing in  some  figures  —  two  peasant  women  picking 
sticks,  come  and  look.' 


XVI. 

Three  days  after  Morton  finished  his  picture. 
Mildred  had  been  with  him  most  of  the  time.  And 
now  lunch  was  over,  and  they  lay  on  the  rug  under 
the  oak  tree  talking  eagerly, 

'Corot  never  married,'  Morton  remarked,  as  he 
shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  and  asked  himself  if 
any  paint  appeared  in  his  sky.  There  was  a  corner 
on  the  left  that  troubled  him.  '  He  doesn't  seem  to 
have  ever  cared  for  any  woman.  They  say  he  never 
had  a  mistress.' 

*  I  hear  that  you  have  not  followed  his  example.' 

'  Not  more  than  I  could  help.* 

His  childish  candour  amused  her  so  that  she 
laughed  outright,  and  she  watched  the  stolid  childish 
stare  that  she  liked,  until  a  longing  to  take  him  in 
her  arms  and  kiss  him  came  upon  her.  Her  voice 
softened,  and  she  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  been  in 
love } 

'Yes,  I  think  I  was.' 

'  How  long  did  it  last  ? ' 

'About  five  years.' 

»S3 


154  CELIBATES. 

'And  then?' 

'  A  lot  of  rot  about  scruples  of  conscience.  I  said, 
I  give  you  a  week  to  think  it  over,  and  if  I  don't 
hear  from  you  in  that  time  I'm  off  to  Italy.' 

'Did  she  write?' 

•  Not  until  I  had  left  Paris.  Then  she  spent  five- 
and-twenty  pounds  in  telegrams  trying  to  get  me 
back.' 

'But  you  wouldn't  go  back.' 

•  Not  I ;  with  me,  when  an  affair  of  that  sort  is 
over,  it  is  really  over.     Don't  you  think  I'm  right  ? ' 

'Perhaps  so.  .  .  .  But  I'm  afraid  we've  learnt 
love  in  different  schools.' 

*  Then  the  sooner  you  relearn  it  in  my  school  the 
better.' 

At  that  moment  a  light  breeze  came  up  the  sandy 
path,  carrying  some  dust  on  to  the  picture.  Morton 
stamped  and  swore.  For  three  minutes  it  was  damn, 
damn,  damn. 

'Do  you  always  swear  like  that  in  the  presence 
of  ladies  ? ' 

*  What's  a  fellow  to  do  when  a  blasted  wind  comes 
up  smothering  his  picture  in  sand?' 

Mildred  could  only  laugh  at  him ;  and,  while  he 
packed  up  his  canvases,  paint-box,  and  easel,  she 
thought  about  him.  She  thought  that  she  under- 
stood him,  and  fancied  that  she  would  be  able  to 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  1 55 

manage  him.  And  convinced  of  her  power  she  said 
aloud,  as  they  plunged  into  the  forest : 

*I  always  think  it  is  a  pity  that  it  is  considered 
vulgar  to  walk  arm  in  arm.  I  like  to  take  an  arm. 
...  I  suppose  we  can  do  what  we  like  in  the  forest 
of  Fontainebleau.     But  you're  too  heavily  laden ' 

'No,  not  a  bit.     I  should  like  it.' 

She  took  his  arm  and  walked  by  his  side  with  a 
sweet  caressing  movement,  and  they  talked  eagerly 
until  they  reached  the  motive  of  his  second  picture. 

'  What  I've  got  on  the  canvas  isn't  very  much 
like  the  view  in  front  of  you,  is  it  ? ' 

*  No,  not  much,  I  don't  like  it  as  well  as  the  other 
picture.' 

*I  began  it  late  one  evening.  I've  never  been 
able  to  get  the  same  effect  again.  Now  it  looks 
like  a  Puvis  de  Chavannes  —  not  my  picture,  but 
that  hillside,  that  large  space  of  blue  sky  and  the 
wood-cutters.' 

*  It  does  a  little.     Are  you  going  on  with  it }  *      / 
'Why.?' 

*  Because  there  is  no  shade  for  me  to  sit  in.  I 
shall  be  roasted  if  we  remain  here.' 

'  What  shall  we  do  ?  Lie  down  in  some  shady 
place } ' 

'We  might  do  that.  ...  I  know  what  I  should 
like.' 


156  CELIBATES. 

'What?' 

*A  long  drive  in  the  forest.' 

'A  capital  idea.  We  can  do  that.  We  shall 
meet  some  one  going  to  Barbizon.  We'll  ask  them 
to  send  us  a  fly.' 

Their  way  lay  through  a  pine  wood  where  the 
heat  was  stifling ;  the  dry  trees  were  like  firewood 
scorched  and  ready  to  break  into  flame;  and  their 
steps  dragged  through  the  loose  sand.  And,  when 
they  had  passed  this  wood,  they  came  to  a  place 
where  the  trees  had  all  been  felled,  and  a  green 
undergrowth  of  pines,  two  or  three  feet  high,  had 
sprung  up.  It  was  difficult  to  force  their  way 
through  ;  the  prickly  branches  were  disagreeable  to 
touch,  and  underneath  the  ground  was  spongy,  with 
layers  of  fallen  needles  hardly  covered  with  coarse 
grass. 

Morton  missed  the  way,  and  his  paint-box  and 
canvases  had  begun  to  weigh  heavy  when  they 
came  upon  the  road  they  were  seeking.  But  where 
they  came  upon  it,  there  was  only  a  little  burnt 
grass,  and  Morton  proposed  that  they  should  toil 
on  until  they  came  to  a  pleasanter  place. 

The  road  ascended  along  the  verge  of  a  steep 
hill,  at  the  top  of  which  they  met  a  bicyclist  who 
promised  to  deliver  Morton's  note.  There  was  an 
opening  in  the  trees,  and  below  them  the  dark  green 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  1 57 

forest  waved  for  miles.  It  was  pleasant  to  rest  — 
they  were  tired.  The  forest  murmured  like  a  shell. 
They  could  distinguish  here  and  there  a  tree,  and 
their  thoughts  went  to  that  tree.  But,  absorbed 
though  they  were  by  this  vast  nature,  each  was 
thinking  intensely  of  the  other.  Mildred  knew  she 
was  near  the  moment  when  Morton  would  take  her 
hand  and  tell  her  that  he  loved  her.  She  wondered 
what  he  would  say.  She  did  not  think  he  would 
say  he  loved  her,  he  would  say :  '  You're  a  damned 
pretty  woman.'  She  could  see  he  was  thinking  of 
something,  and  suspected  him  of  thinking  out  a 
phrase  or  an  oath  appropriate  to  the  occasion.  She 
was  nearly  right.  Morton  was  thinking  how  he 
should  act.  Mildred  was  not  the  common  Barbizon 
art  student  whose  one  idea  is  to  become  the  mis- 
tress of  a  painter  so  that  she  may  learn  to  paint. 
She  had  encouraged  him,  but  she  had  kept  her 
little  dignity.  Moreover,  he  did  not  feel  sure  of 
her.  So  the  minutes  went  by  in  awkward  expec- 
tancy, and  Morton  had  not  kissed  her  before  the 
carriage  arrived. 

She  lay  back  in  the  fly  smiling,  Morton  thought, 
superciliously.  It  seemed  to  him  stupid  to  put  his 
arm  round  her  waist  and  try  to  kiss  her.  But, 
sooner  or  later,  he  would  have  to  do  this.  Once 
this  Rubicon  was  passed  he  would  know  where  he 


158  CELIBATES. 

was.  ...  As  he  debated,  the  tall  trunks  rose 
branchless  for  thirty  or  forty  feet ;  and  Mildred 
said  that  they  were  like  plumed  lances. 

'  So  they  are,'  he  said,  *  like  plumed  lances.  And 
how  beautifully  that  beech  bends,  what  an  exquisite 
curve,  like  a  lance  bent  in  the  shock  of  the  en- 
counter.' 

The  underwood  seemed  to  promise  endless  peace, 
happy  life  amid  leaves  and  birds ;  and  Mildred 
thought  of  a  duel  under  the  tall  trees.  She  saw 
two  men  fighting  to  the  death  for  her.  A  roman- 
tic story  begun  in  a  ball-room,  she  was  not  quite 
certain  how.  Morton  remembered  a  drawing  of 
fauns  and  nymphs.  But  there  was  hardly  cover 
for  a  nymph  to  hide  her  whiteness.  The  ground 
was  too  open,  the  faun  would  soon  overtake  her. 
She  could  better  elude  his  pursuit  in  the  opposite 
wood.  There  the  long  branches  of  the  beeches 
swept  the  heads  of  the  ferns,  and,  in  mysterious 
hollows,  ferns  made  mysterious  shade,  places  where 
nymphs  and  fauns  might  make  noonday  festival. 

'  What  are  you  thinking  of  ? '  said  Mildred. 

'Of  fauns  and  nymphs,'  he  answered.  'These 
woods  seem  to  breathe  antiquity.' 

*  But  you  never  paint  antiquity.' 

*I  try  to.  Millet  got  its  spirit.  Do  you  know 
the  peasant  girl  who  has  taken  off  her  clothes  to 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  1 59 

bathe  in  a  forest  pool,  her  sheep  wandering  through 
the  wood  ?  By  God !  I  should  like  you  to  see 
that  picture.' 

At  the  corner  of  the  carrefour,  the  serpent 
catcher  showed  them  two  vipers  in  a  low  flat 
box.  They  darted  their  forked  tongues  against  the 
wire  netting,  and  the  large  green  snake,  which  he 
took  out  of  a  bag,  curled  round  his  arm,  seeking 
to  escape.  In  questioning  him  they  learnt  that 
the  snakes  were  on  their  way  to  the  laboratory  of 
a  vivisectionist.  This  dissipated  the  mystery  which 
they  had  suggested,  and  the  carriage  drove  in 
silence  down  the  long  forest  road. 

*  We  might  have  bought  those  snakes  from  him, 
and  set  them  at  liberty.' 

*We  might  have,  but  we  didn't.' 

'Why  didn't  we?' 

'What  would  be  the  good.?  ...  If  we  had,  he 
would  have  caught  others.' 

'  I  suppose  so.  But  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  that 
beautiful  snake,  which  you  compared  to  me,  being 
vivisected.' 

The  forest  now  extended  like  a  great  temple, 
hushed  in  the  beautiful  ritual  of  the  sunset.  The 
light  that  suffused  the  green  leaves  overhead 
glossed  the  brown  leaves  underfoot,  marking  the 
smooth    ground     as    with    a    pattern.     And,    like 


l6o  CELIBATES. 

chapels,  every  dell  seemed  in  the  tranquil  light, 
and  leading  from  them  a  labyrinthine  architect- 
ure without  design  or  end.  Mildred's  eyes  wan- 
dered from  the  colonnades  to  the  underwoods. 
She  thought  of  the  forest  as  of  a  great  green 
prison ;  and  then  her  soul  fled  to  the  scraps  of 
blue  that  appeared  through  the  thick  leafage,  and 
she  longed  for  large  spaces  of  sky,  for  a  view  of  a 
plain,  for  a  pine-plumed  hill-top.  Once  more  she 
admired,  once  more  she  wearied  of  the  forest 
aisles,  and  was  about  to  suggest  returning  to 
Barbizon  when  Morton  said: 

*  We  are  nearly  there  now ;  I'm  going  to  show 
you  our  lake.' 

*A  lake!     Is  there  a  lake.?' 

'Yes,  there's  a  lake — not  a  very  large  one,  it  is 
true,  but  still  a  lake — on  the  top  of  a  hill  where 
you  can  see  the  forest.  Under  a  sunset  sky  the 
view  is  magnificent.' 

The  carriage  was  to  wait  for  them,  and,  a  little 
excited  by  the  adventure,  Mildred  followed  Morton 
through  rocks  and  furze  bushes.  When  it  was 
possible  she  took  his  arm,  and  once  accidentally, 
or  nearly  accidentally,  she  sprang  from  a  rock 
into  his  arms.  She  was  surprised  that  he  did 
not  take  advantage  of  the  occasion  to  kiss  her. 

'  Standing  on  this  flat  rock  we're  like  figures  in 
a  landscape,  by  Wilson,'  Mildred  said. 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  l6l 

*  So  we  are,'  said  Morton,  who  was  struck  by  the 
truth  of  the  comparison.  'But  there  is  too  much 
colour  in  the  scene  for  Wilson — he  would  have 
reduced  it  all  to  a  beautiful  blue,  with  only  a 
yellow  flush  to  tell  where  the  sun  had  gone.' 

'It  would  be  very  nice  if  you  would  make  me  a 
sketch  of  the  lake.  I'll  lend  you  a  lead  pencil,  the 
back  of  an  envelope  will  do.' 

*  I've  a  water-colour  box  in  my  pocket  and  a  block. 
Sit  down  there  and  I'll  do  you  a  sketch.' 

'And,  while  you  are  accomplishing  a  work  of 
genius,  I'll  supply  the  levity,  and  don't  you  think 
I'm  just  the  person  to  supply  the  necessary  leaven 
of  lightness  ?  Look  at  my  frock  and  my  sun- 
shade.' 

Morton  laughed,  the  conversation  paused,  and  the 
water-colour  progressed.     Suddenly  Mildred  said  : 

'  What  did  you  think  of  me  the  first  time  you  saw 
me  ?     What  impression  did  I  produce  on  you  .-• ' 

*  Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you,  to  tell  you  exactly  ?  * 
'Yes,  indeed  I  do.* 

'I  don't  think  I  can.' 

'  What  was  it } '  Mildred  asked  in  a  low  affection- 
ate tone,  and  she  leaned  towards  him  in  an  intimate 
affectionate  way. 

'Well  —  you  struck  me  as  being  a  little  dowdy.' 

'  Dowdy  !     I  had  a  nice  new  frock  on.     I  don't 


l62  CELIBATES. 

think  I  could  have  looked  dowdy,  and  among  the 
dreadful  old  rags  that  the  girls  wear  here.' 

'  It  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  clothes  you  wore. 
It  was  a  little  quiet,  sedate  air.' 

*  I  wasn't  in  good  spirits  when  I  came  down  here.* 

*  No,  you  weren't.    I  thought  you  might  be  a  bore.' 
'  But  I  haven't  been  that,  have  I  ? ' 

'  No,  I'm  damned  if  you're  that.* 

*  But  what  a  charming  sketch  you're  making.  You 
take  that  ordinary  common  grey  from  the  palette, 
and  it  becomes  beautiful.  If  I  were  to  take  the 
very  same  tint,  and  put  it  on  the  paper,  it  would  be 
mud.' 

Morton  placed  his  sketch  against  a  rock,  and  sur- 
veyed it  from  a  little  distance.  *  I  don't  call  it  bad, 
do  you }  I  think  I've  got  the  sensation  of  the  lonely 
lake.  But  the  effect  changes  so  rapidly.  Those 
clouds  are  quite  different  from  what  they  were  just 
now.  I  never  saw  a  finer  sky,  it  is  wonderful.  It  is 
splendid  as  a  battle'  .  .  . 

'Write  underneath  it,  "That  night  the  sky  was 
like  a  battle."  ' 

*No,  it  would  do  for  my  sketch.' 

'  You  think  the  suggestion  would  overpower  the 
reality.  .  .  .  But  it  is  a  charming  sketch.  It  will 
remind  me  of  a  charming  day,  of  a  very  happy  day.' 

She  raised  her  eyes.      The  moment   had   come. 


/ 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  163 

He  threw  one  arm  round  her,  and  raised  her  face 
with  the  other  hand.  She  gave  her  lips  easily,  with 
a  naturalness  that  surprised  and  deceived  him.  He 
might  marry  her,  or  she  might  be  his  mistress,  he 
didn't  know  which,  but  he  was  quite  sure  that  he 
liked  her  better  than  any  woman  he  had  seen  for 
a  long  time.  He  had  not  known  her  a  week,  and 
she  already  absorbed  his  thoughts.  And,  during 
the  drive  home,  he  hardly  saw  the  forest.  Once 
a  birch,  whose  faint  leaves  and  branches  dissolved 
in  a  glittering  light,  drew  his  thoughts  away  from 
Mildred.  She  lay  upon  his  shoulder,  his  arm  was 
affectionately  around  her,  and,  looking  at  him  out 
of  eyes  whose  brown  seemed  to  soften  in  affection, 
she  said : 

'Elsie  said  you'd  get  round  me.* 

'  What  did  she  mean  ? ' 

'Well,'  said  Mildred,  nestling  a  little  closer,  and 
laughing  low,  *  haven't  you  got  round  me  ? ' 

Her  playfulness  enchanted  her  lover,  and,  when 
she  discreetly  sought  his  hand,  he  felt  that  he  under- 
stood her  account  of  Alfred's  brutality.  But  her 
tenderness,  in  speaking  of  Ralph,  quickened  his 
jealousy. 

'My  violets  lay  under  his  hand,  he  must  have 
died  thinking  of  me.' 

'But  the  woman  who  wrote  to  you,  his  mistress, 


l64  CELIBATES. 

she  must  have  known  all  about  his  love  for  you. 
What  did  she  say  ? ' 

'  She  said  very  little.  She  was  very  nice  to  me. 
She  could  see  that  I  was  a  good  woman.  .  .  .' 

'But  that  made  no  difference  so  far  as  she  was 
concerned.     You  took  her  lover  away  from  her.' 

*  She  knew  that  I  hadn't  done  anything  wrong, 
that  we  were  merely  friends,' 

The  conversation  paused  a  moment,  then  Morton 
said: 

*  It  seems  to  have  been  a  mysterious  kind  of 
death.     What  did  he  die  of.?' 

*  Ah,  no  one  ever  knew.  The  doctors  could  make 
nothing  of  his  case.  He  had  been  complaining  a 
long  time.     They  spoke  of  overwork,  but ' 

'But,  what.?' 

*  I  believe  he  died  of  slow  poisoning.' 

'Slow  poisoning!    Who  could  have  poisoned  him  .?' 

'  Ellen  Gibbs.' 

'  What  an  awful  thing  to  say.  ...  I  suppose  you 
have  some  reason  for  suspecting  her.?' 

'His  death  was  very  mysterious.  The  doctors 
could  not  account  for  it.  There  ought  to  have  been 
a  post-mortem  examination.'  Feeling  that  this  was 
not  sufficient  reason,  and  remembering  suddenly 
that  Ralph  held  socialistic  theories  and  was  a 
member  of  a  sect   of   socialists,  she  said :     '  Ralph 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  165 

was  a  member  of  a  secret  society.  .  .  .  He  was  an 
anarchist  —  no  one  suspected  it,  but  he  told  me 
everything,  and  it  was  I  who  persuaded  him  to  leave 
the  Brotherhood.' 

'  I  do  not  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  his  death 
by  slow  poisoning.* 

*  Those  who  retire  from  these  societies  usually  die.' 

*  But  why  Ellen  Gibbs  ? ' 

'  She  was  a  member  of  the  same  society,  it  was 
she  who  got  him  to  join.  When  he  resigned  it  was 
her  duty  to ' 

*  Kill  him !  What  a  terrible  story.  I  wonder  if 
you're  right.' 

*I  know  I  am  right.' 

At  the  end  of  a  long  silence,  Morton  said : 

'  I  wonder  if  you  like  me  as  much  as  you  liked 
Ralph.' 

'It  is  very  different.     He  was  very  good  to  me.' 

'  And  do  you  think  that  I  shall  not  be  good  to 
you  ? ' 

'Yes,  I  think  you  will,'  she  said  looking  up  and 
taking  the  hand  which  pressed  against  her  waist. 

'You  say  he  was  a  very  clever  artist.  Do  you 
like  his  work  better  than  mine  ? ' 

'It  was  as  different  as  you  yourselves  are.* 

'  I  wonder  if  I  should  like  it  ? ' 

'He    would    have    liked   that,'    and    she    pointed 


l66  CELIBATES. 

with  her  parasol  towards  an  oak  glade,  golden 
hearted  and  hushed. 

♦  A  sort  of  Diaz,  then  ? ' 

'No,  not  the  least  like  that.  No,  it  wasn't  the 
Rousseau  palette.' 

'That's  a  regular  Diaz  motive.  It  would  be 
difficult  to  treat  it  differently.' 

The  carriage  rolled  through  a  tender  summer 
twilight,  through  a  whispering  forest. 


XVII. 

At  the  end  of  September  the  green  was  duskier, 
yellow  had  begun  to  appear ;  and  the  crisped  leaf 
falling  through  the  still  air  stirred  the  heart  like 
a  memory. 

The  skies  which  rose  above  the  dying  forest 
had  acquired  gentler  tints,  a  wistfulness  had  come 
into  the  blue  which  was  in  keeping  with  the  fall 
of  the  leaf. 

There  was  a  scent  of  moisture  in  the  under- 
woods, rills  had  begun  to  babble ;  on  the  hazel 
rods  leaves  fluttered  pathetically,  the  branches  of 
the  plane  trees  hung  out  like  plumes,  their  droop- 
ing leaves  making  wonderful  patterns. 

In  the  hotel  gardens  a  sunflower  watched  the 
yellowing  forest,  then  bent  its  head  and  died. 

The  great  cedar  was  deserted,  and  in  October 
Morton  was  painting  chrysanthemums  on  the  walls 
of  the  dining-room.  He  called  them  the  flowers 
of  twilight,  the  flowers  of  the  summer's  twilight. 
Mildred  watched  him  adding  the  last  sprays  to 
his  bouquet  of  white  and  purple  bloom. 

167 


l68  CELIBATES. 

The  inveigling  sweetness  of  these  last  bright 
days  entered  into  life,  quickening  it  with  desire 
to  catch  and  detain  some  tinge  of  autumn's  melan- 
choly. All  were  away  in  the  fields  and  the  forest ; 
and,  though  little  of  their  emotion  transpired  on 
their  canvases,  they  were  moved,  as  were  Rousseau 
and  Millet,  by  the  grandeur  of  the  blasted  oak 
and  the  lonely  byre  standing  against  the  long 
forest  fringes,  dimming  in  the  violet  twilight. 

Elsie  was  delighted  with  her  birch,  and  Cissy 
considered  her  rocks  approvingly. 

'You've  caught  the  beauty  of  that  birch,'  said 
Cissy.  'How  graceful  it  is  in  the  languid  air. 
It  seems  sad  about  something.' 

'About  the  pine  at  the  end  of  the  glade,'  said 
Elsie  laughing.  '  I  brought  the  pine  a  little  nearer. 
I  think  it  composes  better.' 

'Yes,  I  think  it  does.  You  must  come  and  see 
my  rocks  and  ferns.  There's  one  corner  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  with.     But  I  like  my  oak.' 

'  I  will  come  presently.  I'm  working  at  the 
effect ;  the  light  will  have  changed  in  another 
half  hour.' 

'I've  done  all  I  can  do  to  mine.  It  would 
make  a  nice  background  for  a  hunting  picture. 
There's  a  hunt  to-day  in  the  forest.  Mildred  and 
Morton  are  going  to  see  the  meet.* 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  I69 

Elsie  continued  painting,  Cissy  sat  down  on  a 
stone  and  soon  lost  herself  in  meditations.  She 
thought  about  the  man  she  was  in  love  with;  he 
had  gone  back  to  Paris.  She  was  now  sure  that 
she  hated  his  method  of  painting,  and,  finding  that 
his  influence  had  not  been  a  good  one,  she  strove 
to  look  on  the  landscape  with  her  own  eyes.  But 
she  saw  only  various  painters  in  it.  The  last  was 
Morton  Mitchell,  and  she  thought  if  he  had  been 
her  lover  she  might  have  learnt  something  from 
him.  But  he  was  entirely  taken  up  with  Mildred, 
She  did  not  like  Mildred  any  more,  she  had 
behaved  -very  badly  to  that  poor  little  Rose 
Turner.  'Poor  little  thing,  she  trembles  like  that 
birch.' 

'  What  are  you  saying,  Cissy  ?  Who  trembles 
like  that  birch?' 

*I  was  thinking  of  Rose,  she  seems  dreadfully 
upset,  Morton  never  looks  at  her  now,' 

'  I  think  that  Morton  would  have  married  her  if 
Mildred  hadn't  appeared  on  the  scene.  I  know  he 
was  thinking  of  settling  down.' 

'Mildred  is  a  mystery.  Her  pleasure  seems  to 
be  to  upset  people's  lives.  You  remember  poor 
Ralph  Hoskin.  He  died  of  a  broken  heart.  I 
can't  make  Mildred  out,  she  tells  a  lot  of  lies. 
She's    always    talking    about    her    virtue.      But    I 


I/O  CELIBATES. 

hardly  think  that  Morton  would  be  as  devoted 
to  her  as  he  is  if  he  weren't  her  lover.  Do  you 
think  so  ? ' 

*  I  don't  know,  men  are  very  strange.* 

Elsie  rose  to  her  feet.  She  put  aside  her  camp 
stool,  walked  back  a  few  yards,  and  looked  at  her 
picture.  The  motive  of  her  picture  was  a  bending 
birch  at  the  end  of  the  glade.  Rough  forest  growth 
made  clear  its  delicate  drawing,  and  in  the  pale  sky, 
washed  by  rains  to  a  faded  blue,  clouds  arose  and 
evaporated.  The  road  passed  at  the  bottom  of  the 
hill  and  several  huntsmen  had  already  ridden  by. 
Now  a  private  carriage  with  a  pair  of  hoi;ses  stood 
waiting. 

'That's  Madame  Delacour's  carriage,  she  is  wait- 
ing for  Mildred  and  Morton.' 

*  The  people  at  Fontainebleau  ? ' 

'Yes,  the  wife  of  the  great  Socialist  Deputy. 
They're  at  Fontainebleau  for  the  season.  M. 
Delacour  has  taken  the  hunting.  They  say  he 
has  a  fine  collection  of  pictures.  He  buys  Mor- 
ton's pictures.  ...  It  was  he  who  bought  his 
"  Sheepfold." ' 

Elsie  did  not  admire  Morton's  masterpiece  as 
much  as  Cissy.  But  they  were  agreed  that  Mil- 
dred might  prove  a  disintegrating  influence  in 
the  development   of  his   talent.     He  had  done  no 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  171 

work  since  he  had  made  her  acquaintance.  She 
was  a  mere  society  woman.  She  had  never  cared 
for  painting;  she  had  taken  up  painting  because 
she  thought  that  it  would  help  her  socially.  She 
had  taken  up  Morton  for  the  same  reason.  He 
had  introduced  her  to  the  Delacours.  She  had  been 
a  great  success  at  the  dinner  they  had  given  last 
week.  No  doubt  she  had  exaggerated  her  suc- 
cess, but  old  Dedyier,  who  had  been  there  too, 
had  said  that  every  one  was  talking  of  la  belle 
et  la  spirituelle  anglaise. 

The  girls  sat  watching  the  carriage  stationed 
at  the  bottom  of  the  hill.  The  conversation 
paused,  a  sound  of  wheels  was  heard,  and  a  fly 
was  seen  approaching.  The  fly  was  dismissed,  and 
Mildred  took  her  seat  next  to  Madame  Delacour. 
Morton  sat  opposite.  He  settled  the  rug  over  the 
ladies'  knees  and  the  carriage  drove  rapidly  away. 

'They'll  be  late  for  the  meet,'  said  Cissy. 

And  all  the  afternoon  the  girls  listened  to  the 
hunting.  In  the  afternoon  three  huntsmen  crashed 
through  the  brushwood  at  the  end  of  a  glade, 
winding  the  long  horns  they  wore  about  their 
shoulders.  Once  a  strayed  hound  came  very  near 
them,  Elsie  threw  the  dog  a  piece  of  bread.  It 
did  not  see  the  bread,  and  pricking  up  its  ears  it 
trotted  away.     The  horns  came  nearer  and  nearer, 


172  CELIBATES. 

and  the  girls  were  affrighted  lest  they  should  meet 
the  hunted  boar  and  be  attacked.  It  must  have 
turned  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill.  The  horns  died 
through  the  twilight,  a  spectral  moon  was  afloat 
in  the  sky,  and  some  wood-cutters  told  them  that 
they  were  three  kilometres  from  Barbizon. 

When  about  a  mile  from  the  village  they  were 
overtaken  by  the  Delacours'  carriage.  Morton  and 
Mildred  bade  Madame  good-bye  and  walked  home 
with  them.  Their  talk  was  of  hunting.  The  boar 
had  been  taken  close  to  the  central  carrefour, 
they  had  watched  the  fight  with  the  dogs,  seven 
of  which  he  had  disabled  before  M.  Delacour  suc- 
ceeded  in  finally  despatching  him.  The  edible 
value  of  boar's  head  was  discussed,  until  Mildred 
mentioned  that  Madame  Delacour  was  going  to 
give  a  ball.  Elsie  and  Cissy  were  both  jealous  of 
Mildred,  but  they  hoped  she  would  get  them 
invited.  She  said  that  she  did  not  know  Madame 
Delacour  well  enough  to  ask  for  invitations'.  Later 
on  she  would  see  what  could  be  done ;  Morton 
thought  that  there  would  be  no  difficulty,  and  Elsie 
asked  Mildred  what  dress  she  was  going  to  wear. 
Mildred  said  she  was  going  to  Paris  to  order  some 
clothes  and  the  conversation  dropped. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  the  Delacours  drove  over 
to  Barbizon  and  lunched  at   Lunions.     The  horses, 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  1 73 

the  carriage,  liveries,  the  dresses,  the  great  name 
of  the  Deputy  made  a  fine  stir  in  the  village. 

*  I  wonder  if  she'll  get  us  invited,'  said  Elsie. 

*Not  she,'  said  Cissy. 

But  Mildred  was  always  unexpected.  She  intro- 
duced Monsieur  and  Madame  Delacour  to  Elsie  and 
Cissy ;  she  insisted  on  their  showing  their  paint- 
ings; they  were  invited  to  the  ball,  and  Mildred 
drove  away  nodding  and  smiling. 

Her  dress  was  coming  from  Paris ;  she  was  stay- 
ing with  the  Delacours  until  after  the  ball,  so,  as 
Cissy  said,  her  way  was  nice  and  smooth  and  easy 
—  very  different  indeed  from  theirs.  They  had  to 
struggle  with  the  inability  and  ignorance  of  a  pro- 
vincial dressmaker,  working  against  time.  At  the 
last  moment  it  became  clear  that  their  frocks  could 
not  be  sent  to  Barbizon,  that  they  would  have  to 
dress  for  the  ball  in  Fontainebleau.  But  where ! 
They  would  have  to  hire  rooms  at  the  hotel,  and, 
having  gone  to  the  expense  of  hiring  rooms,  they 
had  as  well  sleep  at  Fontainebleau.  They  could 
return  with  Mildred  —  she  would  have  the  Delacours' 
carriage.  They  could  all  four  return  together,  that 
would  be  very  jolly.  The  hotel  omnibus  was  going 
to  Melun  to  catch  the  half-past  six  train.  If  they  went 
by  train  they  would  economise  sufficiently  in  carriage 
hire  to  pay  their  hotel  expenses,  or  very  nearly. 


174  CELIBATES. 

Morton  agreed  to  accompany  them.  He  got  their 
tickets  and  found  them  places,  but  they  noticed  that 
he  seemed  a  little  thoughtful,  not  to  say  gloomy. 

'Not  the  least,'  as  Elsie  said,  'like  a  man  who 
was  going  to  meet  his  sweetheart  at  a  ball.' 

'I  think,'  whispered  Cissy,  'that  he's  beginning 
to  regret  that  he  introduced  her  to  the  Delacours. 
He  feels  that  it  is  as  likely  as  not  that  she'll  throw 
him  over  for  some  of  the  grand  people  she  will 
meet  there.' 

Cissy  had  guessed  rightly.  A  suspicion  had  en- 
tered into  his  heart  that  Mildred  was  beginning  to 
perceive  that  her  interest  lay  rather  with  the  Dela- 
cours than  with  him.  And  he  had  not  engaged 
himself  to  Mildred  for  any  dances,  because  he  wished 
to  see  if  she  would  reserve  any  dances  for  him. 
This  ball  he  felt  would  prove  a  turning-point  in  his 
love  story.  He  suspected  M.  Delacour  of  entertain- 
ing some  very  personal  admiration  for  Mildred ; 
he  would  see  if  his  suspicion  were  well  founded ;  he 
would  not  rush  to  her  at  once ;  and,  having  shaken 
hands  with  his  host  and  hostess,  he  sought  a  corner 
whence  he  could  watch  Mildred  and  the  ball. 

The  rooms  were  already  thronged,  but  the  men 
were  still  separated  from  the  women ;  the  fusion  of 
the  sexes,  which  was  the  mission  of  the  dance  to 
accomplish,    had   hardly  begun.     Some  few  officers 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  1 75 

were  selecting  partners  up  and  down  the  room,  but 
the  politicians,  their  secretaries,  the  prefects,  and 
the  sub-prefects  had  not  yet  moved  from  the  door- 
ways. The  platitudes  of  public  life  were  written 
in  their  eyes.  But  these  made  expressions  were 
broken  at  the  sight  of  some  young  girl's  fragility,  or 
the  paraded  charms  of  a  woman  of  thirty ;  and 
then  each  feared  that  his  neighbour  had  discovered 
thoughts  in  him  unappropriate  to  the  red  ribbon 
which  he  wore  in  his  buttonhole. 

'A  cross  between  clergymen  and  actors,'  thought 
Morton,  and  he  indulged  in  philosophical  reflections. 
The  military  had  lost  its  prestige  in  the  boudoir. 
Nothing  short  of  a  continental  war  could  revive  it, 
the  actor  and  the  tenor  never  did  more  than  to  lift 
the  fringe  of  society's  garment.  The  curate  con- 
tinues a  very  solid  innings  in  the  country ;  but  in 
town  the  political  lover  is  in  the  ascendent.  *A 
possible  under-secretary  is  just  the  man  to  cut  me 
out  with  Mildred.  .  .  .  They'd  discuss  the  elections 
between  kisses.'  At  that  moment  he  saw  Mildred 
struggling  through  the  crowd  with  a  young  diploma- 
tist, Le  Comte  de  la  Ferriere. 

She  wore  white  tulle  laid  upon  white  silk.  The 
bodice  was  silver  fish-scales,  and  she  shimmered  like 
a  moonbeam.  She  laid  her  hand  on  her  dancer's 
shoulder,  moving  forward  with  a  motion   that   per- 


176  CELIBATES. 

meated  her  whole  body.  A  silver  shoe  appeared, 
and  Morton  thought : 

*  What  a  vanity,  only  a  vanity ;  but  what  a  de- 
licious and  beautiful  vanity.' 

The  waltz  ended,  some  dancers  passed  out  of  the 
ball-room,  and  Mildred  was  surrounded.  It  looked 
as  if  her  card  would  be  filled  before  Morton  could 
get  near  her.  But  she  stood  on  tiptoe  and,  looking 
over  the  surrounding  shoulders,  cried  that  she  would 
keep  the  fourteenth  for  him.  'Why  did  you  not 
come  before,'  she  asked  smiling,  and  went  out  of  the 
room  on  the  arm  of  the  young  comte. 

At  that  moment  M.  Delacour  took  Morton's  arm 
and  asked  when  would  the  picture  he  had  ordered  be 
finished.  Morton  hoped  by  the  end  of  next  week, 
and  the  men  walked  through  the  room  talking  of 
pictures  .  .  .  On  the  way  back  they  met  Mildred. 
She  told  Morton  that  she  would  make  it  all  right 
later  on.  He  must  now  go  and  talk  to  Madame  De- 
lacour. She  had  promised  M.  Delacour  the  next 
dance. 

M.  Delacour  was  fifty,  but  he  was  straight  and 
thin,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  grey  in  his  black  hair, 
which  fitted  close  and  tight  as  a  skull  cap.  His  face 
was  red  and  brown,  but  he  did  not  seem  very  old,  and 
Morton  wondered  if  it  were  possible  for  Mildred  to 
love  so  old  a  man, 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  1 77' 

Madame  Delacour  sat  in  a  high  chair  within  the 
doorway,  out  of  reach  of  any  draught  that  might 
happen  on  the  staircase.  Her  blond  hair  was  drawn 
high  up  in  an  eighteenth  century  coiffure,  and  her 
high  pale  face  looked  like  a  cameo  or  an  old  coin. 
She  spoke  in  a  high  clear  voice,  and  expressed  her- 
self in  French  a  little  unfamiliar  to  her  present  com- 
pany. *  She  must  have  married  beneath  her,'  thought 
Morton,  and  he  wondered  on  what  terms  she  lived 
with  her  husband.  He  spoke  of  Mildred  as  the  pret- 
tiest woman  in  the  room,  and  was  disappointed  that 
Madame  Delacour  did  not  contest  the  point  .  .  . 

When  Cissy  and  Elsie  came  whirling  by,  Cissy 
unnecessarily  large  and  bare,  and  Elsie  intolerably 
pert  and  middle  class,  Morton  regretted  that  he 
would  have  to  ask  them  to  dance.  And,  when  he 
had  danced  with  them  and  the  three  young  ladies 
Madame  Delacour  had  introduced  him  to,  and  had 
taken  a  comtesse  into  supper,  he  found  that  the  four- 
teenth waltz  was  over.  But  Mildred  bade  him  not  to 
look  so  depressed,  she  had  kept  the  cotillion  for  him. 
It  was  going  to  begin  very  soon.  He  had  better 
look  after  chairs.  So  he  tied  his  handkerchief  round 
a  couple.  But  he  knew  what  the  cotillion  meant. 
She  would  be  always  dancing  with  others.  And  the 
cotillion  proved  as  he  had  expected.  Everything 
happened,  but  it  was  all  the  same  to  him.     Dancers 


178  CELIBATES. 

had  gone  from  the  dancing-room  and  returned  in 
masks  and  dominoes.  A  paper  imitation  of  a  six- 
teenth-century house  had  been  brought  in,  ladies  had 
shown  themselves  at  the  lattice,  they  had  been  sere- 
naded, and  had  chosen  serenaders  to  dance  with. 
And  when  at  the  end  of  his  inventions  the  leader  fell 
back  on  the  hand  glass  and  the  cushion,  Mildred 
refused  dance  after  dance.  At  last  the  leader  called 
to  Morton,  he  came  up  certain  of  triumph,  but  Mil- 
dred passed  the  handkerchief  over  the  glass  and 
drew  the  cushion  from  his  knee.  She  danced  both 
figures  with  M.  Delacour. 

She  was  covered  with  flowers  and  ribbons,  and, 
though  a  little  woman,  she  looked  very  handsome  in 
her  triumph.  Morton  hated  her  triumph,  knowing 
that  it  robbed  him  of  her.  But  he  hid  his  jealousy 
as  he  would  his  hand  in  a  game  of  cards,  and,  when 
the  last  guests  were  going,  he  bade  her  good-night 
with  a  calm  face.  He  saw  her  go  upstairs  with  M. 
Delacour.  Madame  Delacour  had  gone  to  her  room ; 
she  had  felt  so  tired  that  she  could  sit  up  no  longer 
and  had  begged  her  husband  to  excuse  her,  and  as 
Mildred  went  upstairs,  three  or  four  steps  in  front 
of  M.  Delacour,  she  stopped  to  arrange  with  Elsie 
and  Cissy  when  she  should  come  to  fetch  them,  they 
were  all  going  home  together. 

At  that  moment  Morton  saw  her  so  clearly  that 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  1 79 

the  thought  struck  him  that  he  had  never  seen  her 
before.  She  appeared  in  that  instant  as  a  toy,  a 
trivial  toy  made  of  coloured  glass ;  and  as  a  malefi- 
cent toy,  for  he  felt  if  he  played  with  it  any  longer 
that  it  would  break  and  splinter  in  his  fingers. 
*  As  brilliant,  as  hard,  and  as  dangerous  as  a  piece 
of  broken  glass.'  He  wondered  why  he  had  been 
attracted  by  this  bit  of  coloured  glass ;  he  laughed 
at  his  folly  and  went  home  certain  that  he  could 
lose  her  without  pain.  But  memory  of  her  delicate 
neck  and  her  wistful  eyes  suddenly  assailed  him  ;  he 
threw  himself  over  on  his  pillow,  aching  to  clasp  the 
lissome  mould  of  her  body  —  a  mould  which  he  knew 
so  well  that  he  seemed  to  feel  its  every  shape  in  his 
arms ;  his  nostrils  recalled  its  perfume,  and  he  asked 
himself  if  he  would  destroy  his  picture,  '  The  Sheep- 
fold,'  if,  by  destroying  it,  he  could  gain  her.  For 
six  months  with  her  in  Italy  he  would  destroy  it,  and 
he  would  not  regret  its  destruction.  But  had  she 
the  qualities  that  make  a  nice  mistress  ?  Candidly, 
he  did  not  think  she  had.  He'd  have  to  risk  that. 
Anyhow,  she  wasn't  common  like  the  others.  .  .  . 
In  time  she  would  become  common ;  time  makes  all 
things  common. 

*  But  this  is  God-damned  madness,'  he  cried  out, 
and  lay  staring  into  the  darkness,  his  eyes  and  heart 
on  fire.     Visions  of  Mildred  and  Delacour  haunted 


l80  CELIBATES. 

his  pillow,  he  did  not  know  whether  he  slept  or 
waked ;  and  he  rose  from  his  bed  weary,  heavy-eyed, 
and  pale. 

He  was  to  meet  her  ajt  eleven  on  the  terrace  by 
the  fish-pond,  and  had  determined  to  come  to  an 
understanding  with  her,  but  his  heart  choked  him 
when  he  saw  her  coming  toward  him  along  the 
gravel  path.  He  bought  some  bread  at  the  stall 
for  the  fish ;  and  talking  to  her  he  grew  so  happy 
that  he  feared  to  imperil  his  happiness  by  re- 
proaches. They  wondered  if  they  would  see  the 
fabled  carp  in  whose  noses  rings  had  been  put  in 
the  time  of  Louis  XIV.  The  statues  on  their 
pedestals,  high  up  in  the  clear,  bright  air,  were  sin- 
gularly beautiful,  and  they  saw  the  outlines  of  the 
red  castle  and  the  display  of  terraces  reaching  to 
the  edge  of  the  withering  forest.  They  were  con- 
scious that  the  place  was  worthy  of  its  name,  Fon- 
tainebleau.  The  name  is  evocative  of  stately  days 
and  traditions,  and  Mildred  fancied  herself  a  king's 
mistress  —  La  Pompadour.  The  name  is  a  romance, 
an  excitement,  and,  throwing  her  arms  on  Morton's 
shoulders,  she  said : 

'Morton,  dear,  don't  be  angry.  I'm  very  fond  of 
you,  I  really  am.  ...  I  only  stop  with  the  Dela- 
cours  because  they  amuse  me.  ...  It  means 
nothing.* 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  l8l 

*  If  I  could  only  believe  you,'  said  Morton,  holding 
her  arms  in  his  hands  and  looking  into  her  brown 
eyes. 

'  Why  don't  you  believe  me  ? '  she  said  ;  but  there 
was  no  longer  any  earnestness  in  her  voice.  It  had 
again  become  a  demure  insincerity. 

*  If  you  were  really  fond  of  me,  you'd  give  your- 
self.' 

'Perhaps  I  will  one  of  these  days.' 

'When  .  .  .  when  you  return  to  Barbizon.?* 

'  I  won't  promise.  When  I  promise  I  like  to  keep 
my  promise.  .  .  .  You  ask  too  much.  You  don't 
realise  what  it  means  to  a  woman  to  give  herself. 
Have  you  never  had  a  scruple  about  anything .-' ' 

'  Scruple  about  anything  !  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean.  .  .  .  What  scruple  can  you  have  .-*  you're  not 
a  religious  woman.' 

'  It  isn't  religion,  it  is  —  well,  something.  ...  I 
don't  know.' 

'This  has  gone  on  too  long,'  he  said,  'if  I  don't 
get  you  now  I  shall  lose  you.' 

'  If  you  were  really  afraid  of  losing  me  you  would 
ask  me  to  marry  you.' 

Morton  was  taken  aback. 

'  I  never  thought  of  marriage ;  but  I  would  marry 
you.     Do  you  mean  it.'' 

'Yes,  I  mean  it.' 


1 82  CELIBATES. 

*  When  ? ' 

'One  of  these  days.* 

*I  don't  believe  you.  .  .  .  You're  a  bundle  of 
falsehoods.' 

'  I'm  not  as  false  as  you  say.  There's  no  use 
making  me  out  worse  than  I  am.  I'm  very  fond 
of  you,  Morton.' 

'I  wonder,'  said  Morton.  'I  asked  you  just  now 
to  be  my  mistress  ;  you  said  you'd  prefer  to  marry 
me.     Very  well,  when  will  you  marry  me  .-' ' 

*  Don't  ask  me.  I  cannot  say  when.  Besides,  you 
don't  want  to  marry  me.' 

'  You  think  so  ? ' 

'You  hesitated  just  now.  A  woman  always 
knows.  ...  If  you  had  wanted  to  marry  me  you 
would  have  begun  by  asking  me.' 

'This  is  tomfoolery.  I  asked  you  to  be  my  mis- 
tress, and  then,  at  your  suggestion,  I  asked  you  to 
be  my  wife  ;  I  really  don't  see  what  more  I  can  do. 
You  say  you're  very  fond  of  me,  and  yet  you  want 
to  be  neither  mistress  nor  wife.' 

A  little  dark  cloud  gathered  between  her  eyes. 
She  did  not  answer.  She  did  not  know  what  to 
answer,  for  she  was  acting  in  contradiction  to  her 
reason.  Her  liking  for  Morton  was  quite  real ;  there 
were  even  moments  when  she  thought  that  she 
would    end  by  marrying.      But   mysterious    occult 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  1 83 

influences  which  she  could  neither  explain  nor  con- 
trol were  drawing  her  away  from  him.  She  asked 
herself,  what  was  this  power  which  abided  in  the 
bottom  of  her  heart,  from  which  she  could  not  rid 
herself,  and  which  said,  'thou  shalt  not  marry  him.' 
She  asked  herself  if  this  essential  force  was  the  life 
of  pleasure  and  publicity  which  the  Delacours 
offered  her.  She  had  to  admit  that  she  was  drawn 
to  this  life,  and  that  she  had  felt  strangely  at  ease 
in  it.  In  the  few  days  that  she  had  spent  with  the 
Delacours  she  had,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  felt 
in  agreement  with  her  surroundings.  She  had 
always  hated  that  dirty  studio,  and  still  more  its 
dirty  slangy  frequenters. 

And  she  lay  awake  a  great  part  of  the  night  think- 
ing. She  felt  that  she  must  act  in  obedience  to  her 
instinct  whatever  it  might  cost  her,  and  her  instinct 
drew  her  towards  the  Delacours  and  away  from 
Morton.  But  her  desire  for  Morton  was  not  yet 
exhausted,  and  the  struggle  between  the  two  forces 
resulted  in  one  of  her  moods.  Its  blackness  lay  on 
forehead,  between  her  eyes,  and,  in  the  influence  of 
its  mesmerism,  she  began  to  hate  him.  As  she  put 
it  to  herself,  she  began  to  feel  ugly  towards  him. 
She  hated  to  return  to  Barbizon,  and  when  they  met, 
she  gave  her  cheek  instead  of  her  lips,  and  words 
which    provoked    and    wounded    him    rose    to   her 


l84  CELIBATES. 

tongue's  tip ;  she  could  not  save  herself  from  speak- 
ing them,  and  each  day  their  estrangement  grew 
more  and  more  accentuated. 

She  came  down  one  morning  nervously  calm,  her 
face  set  in  a  definite  and  gathering  expression  of 
resolution.  Elsie  could  see  that  something  serious 
had  happened.  But  Mildred  did  not  seem  inclined 
to  explain,  she  only  said  that  she  must  leave  Bar- 
bizon  at  once.  That  she  was  going  that  very 
morning,  that  her  boxes  were  packed,  that  she  had 
ordered  a  carriage. 

'  Are  you  going  back  to  Paris } ' 

'  Yes,  but  I  don't  think  I  shall  go  to  Melun,  I 
shall  go  to  Fontainebleau.  I'd  like  to  say  good- 
bye to  the  Delacours.' 

'  This  is  hardly  a  day  for  a  drive  through  the 
forest ;  you'll  be  blown  to  pieces.' 

'  I  don't  mind  a  little  wind.  I  shall  tie  my  veil 
tighter.' 

Mildred  admitted  that  she  had  quarrelled  with 
Morton.  But  she  would  say  no  more.  She  declared, 
however,  that  she  would  not  see  him  again.  Her 
intention  was  to  leave  before  he  came  down ;  and, 
as  if  unable  to  bear  the  delay  any  longer,  she  asked 
Cissy  and  Elsie  to  walk  a  little  way  with  her.  The 
carriage  could  follow. 

The  wind  was  rough,  but  they  were  burning  to 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  1 85 

hear  what  Morton  had  done,  and,  hoping  that  Mildred 
would  become  more  communicative  when  they  got 
out  of  the  village,  they  consented  to  accompany  her. 
'I'm  sorry  to  leave,'  said  Mildred,  ' but  I  cannot 
stay  after  what  happened  last  night.  Oh,  dear ! ' 
she  exclaimed,  '  my  hat  nearly  went  that  time.  I'm 
afraid  I  shall  have  a  rough  drive.' 

*  You  will  indeed.     You'd  better  stay,'  said  Elsie. 

*  I  cannot.  It  would  be  impossible  for  me  to 
see  him  again.' 

'  But  what  did  he  say  to  offend  you  ? ' 

'  It  wasn't  what  he  said,  it  was  what  he  did.' 

'What  did  he  do.?' 

'  He  came  into  my  room  last  night.' 

'  Did  he  !   were  you  in  bed  ? ' 

'  Yes ;  I  was  in  bed  reading.  I  was  awfully 
frightened.  I  never  saw  a  man  in  such  a  state. 
I  think  he  was  mad.* 

'What  did  you  do.?' 

'I  tried  to  calm  him.  I  felt  that  I  must  not 
lose  my  presence  of  mind.  I  spoke  to  him  gently. 
I  appealed  to  his  honour,  and  at  last  I  persuaded 
him  to  go.' 

'What  did  you  say.?' 

'  I  at  last  persuaded  him  to  go.' 

'We  can't  talk  in  this  wind,'  screamed  Elsie, 
'  we'd  better  go  back.' 


1 86  CELIBATES. 

*  We  shall  be  killed,'  cried  Cissy  starting  back 
in  alarm,  for  a  young  pine  had  crashed  across  the 
road  not  very  far  from  where  they  were  standing, 
and  the  girls  could  hear  the  wind  trumpeting,  career- 
ing, springing  forward;  it  rushed,  leaped,  it  paused, 
and  the  whole  forest  echoed  its  wrath. 

When  the  first  strength  of  the  blast  seemed 
ebbing,  the  girls  looked  round  for  shelter.  They 
felt  if  they  remained  where  they  were,  holding  on 
to  roots  and  grasses,  that  they  would  be  carried 
away. 

'Those  rocks,'  cried  Cissy. 

'  We  shan't  get  there  in  time,  the  trees  will  fall,* 
cried  Elsie. 

'  Not  a  minute  to  lose,'  said  Mildred.     *  Come  ! ' 

And  the  girls  ran  through  the  swaying  trees  at 
the  peril  of  their  lives.  And,  as  they  ran,  the 
earth  gave  forth  a  rumbling  sound  and  was  lifted 
beneath  their  feet.  It  seemed  as  if  subterranean 
had  joined  with  aerial  forces,  for  the  crumbling 
sound  they  had  heard  as  they  ran  through  the  scat- 
tered pines  increased ;  it  was  the  roots  giving  way ; 
and  the  pines  bent,  wavered,  and  fell  this  way  and 
that.  But  about  the  rocks,  where  the  girls  crouched 
the  trees  grew  so  thickly  that  the  wind  could  not 
destroy  them  singly ;  so.  it  had  taken  the  wood  in 
violent  and   passionate  grasp,  and  was   striving  to 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  1 67 

beat  it  down.  But  under  the  rocks  all  was  quiet, 
the  storm  was  above  in  the  branches,  and,  hearing 
almost  human  cries,  the  girls  looked  up  and  saw 
great  branches  interlocked  like  serpents  in  the 
writhe  of  battle. 

In  half  an  hour  the  storm  had  blown  itself  out. 
But  a  loud  wind  shook  through  the  stripped  and 
broken  forest ;  lament  was  in  all  the  branches,  the 
wind  forced  them  upwards  and  they  gesticulated 
their  despair.  The  leaves  rose  and  sank  like  cries 
of  woe  adown  the  raw  air,  and  the  roadway  was 
littered  with  ruin.  The  whirl  of  the  wind  still  con- 
tinued and  the  frightened  girls  dreaded  lest  the 
storm  should  return,  overtaking  them  as  they  passed 
through  the  avenue. 

The  avenue  was  nearly  impassable  with  fallen 
trees,  and  Elsie  said  : 

'  You'll  not  be  able  to  go  to  Fontainebleau  to-day.' 

*  Then  I  shall  go  to  Melun.' 

As  they  entered  the  village  they  met  the  carriage, 
and  Mildred  bade  her  friends  good-bye. 


XVIII. 

In  the  long  autumn  and  winter  evenings  Harold 
often  thought  of  his  sister.  His  eyes  often  wan- 
dered to  the  writing  table,  and  he  asked  himself  if 
he  should  write  to  her  again.  There  seemed  little 
use.  She  either  ignored  his  questions  altogether, 
or  alluded  to  them  in  a  few  words  and  passed  from 
them  into  various  descriptive  writing,  the  aspects 
of  the  towns  she  had  visited,  and  the  general  vege- 
tation of  the  landscapes  she  had  seen ;  or  she  di- 
lated on  the  discovery  of  a  piece  of  china,  a  bronze, 
or  an  old  engraving  in  some  forgotten  corner.  Her 
intention  to  say  nothing  about  herself  was  obvious. 

In  a  general  way  he  gathered  that  she  had  been 
to  Nice  and  Monte  Carlo,  and  he  wondered  why  she 
had  gone  to  the  Pyrenees,  and  with  whom  she  was 
living  in  the  Boulevard  Poissonier.  That  was  her 
last  address.  The  letter  was  dated  the  fifteenth  of 
December,  she  had  not  written  since,  and  it  was 
now  March.  But  scraps  of  news  of  her  had  reached 
him.  One  day  he  learnt  from  a  paragraph  in  a 
newspaper  that  Miss  Mildred  Lawson  had  been  re- 

i88 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  1 89 

ceived  into  the  Church  of  Rome,  he  wrote  to  inquire 
if  this  was  true,  and  a  few  days  after  a  lady  told 
him  that  she  had  heard  that  Mildred  had  entered  a 
Carmelite  convent  and  taken  the  veil.  The  lady's 
information  did  not  seem  very  trustworthy,  but 
Harold  was  nevertheless  seriously  alarmed,  and, 
without  waiting  for  an  answer  to  the  letter  he  had 
written  the  day  before,  he  telegraphed  to  Mildred. 

*  I  have  not  entered  a  convent  and  have  no  pres- 
ent intention  of  doing  so.' 

'Could  anything  be  more  unsatisfactory,*  Harold 
thought.  'She  does  not  say  whether  she  has  gone 
over  to  Rome.  Perhaps  that  is  untrue  too.  Shall 
I  telegraph  again.?'  He  hesitated  and  then  decided 
that  he  would  not.  She  did  not  wish  to  be  ques- 
tioned, and  would  find  an  evasive  answer  that  would 
leave  him  only  more  bewildered  than  before. 

He  hoped  for  an  answer  to  his  letter,  but  Mildred 
did  not  write,  no  doubt,  being  of  opinion  that  her 
telegram  met  the  necessity  of  the  case,  and  he  heard 
no  more  until  some  news  of  her  came  to  him  through 
Elsie  Laurence,  whom  Harold  met  one  afternoon 
as  he  was  coming  home  from  the  city.  From  Elsie 
he  learnt  that  Mildred  was  a  great  social  success  in 
Paris.  She  was  living  with  the  Delacours,  she  had 
met  them  at  Fontainebleau.  Morton  Mitchell,  that 
was  the  man  she  had  thrown  over,  had  introduced 


190  CELIBATES. 

her  to  them.  Harold  had  never  heard  of  the  Dela- 
cours,  and  he  hastened  to  acquaint  himself  with 
them ;  Morton  Mitchell  he  reserved  for  some  future 
time  ;  one  flirtation  more  or  less  mattered  little ; 
but  that  his  sister  should  be  living  with  the  Dela- 
cours,  a  radical  and  socialist  deputy,  a  questionable 
financier,  a  company  promoter,  a  journalist,  was  very 
shocking.  Delacour  was  all  these  things  and  many 
more,  according  to  Elsie,  and  she  rattled  on  until 
Harold's  brain  whirled.  He  learnt,  too,  that  it  was 
with  the  Delacours  that  Mildred  had  been  in  the 
South. 

'She  wrote  to  me  from  some  place  in  the 
Pyrenees.' 

'  From  Lourdes  ?   she  was  there.' 

A  cloud  gathered  on  Harold's  face. 

'  She  didn't  write  to  me  from  Lourdes,'  he  said. 
'  But  Lourdes  is,  I  suppose,  the  reason  of  her  per- 
version to  Rome } ' 

'No;  Mildred  told  me  that  Lourdes  had  nothing 
to  do  with  it' 

'You  say  that  she  now  lives  with  these  people, 
the  Delacours.' 

'Yes;  she's  just  like  one  of  the  family.  She 
invites  her  friends  to  dinner.  She  invited  me  to 
dinner.  The  Delacours  are  very  rich,  and  Mildred 
is  now  all  the  rage  in  Paris.' 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  I9I 

'And  Madame  Delacour,  what  kind  of  a  woman 
is  she  ? ' 

'  Madame  Delacour  has  very  poor  health,  they 
say  she  was  once  a  great  beauty,  but  there's  very 
little  of  her  beauty  left.  .  .  ,  She's  very  fond  of 
Mildred.     They  are  great  friends.' 

The  next  time  that  Harold  heard  of  Mildred  was 
through  his  solicitors.  In  the  course  of  conversa- 
tion regarding  some  investments,  Messrs.  Blunt 
and  Hume  mentioned  that  Miss  Lawson  had  taken 
;^5(XX)  out  of  mortgage.  They  did  not  know  if 
she  had  re-invested  it,  she  had  merely  requested 
them  to  pay  the  money  into   her   banking  account. 

'  Why  did  you  not  mention  this  to  me  before  ? ' 

'  Miss  Lawson  has  complete  control  over  her 
private  fortune.  On  a  former  occasion,  you  re- 
member, when  she  required  five  hundred  pounds 
to  hire  and  furnish  a  studio,  she  wrote  very 
sharply  because  we  had  written  to  you  on  the 
subject.  She  spoke  of  a  breach  of  professional 
etiquette.' 

'  Then    why    do    you    tell    me    now    about    this 

;^SOOO.?' 

*  Strictly  speaking  we  ought  not  to  have  done 
so,  but  we  thought  that  we  might  venture  on  a 
confidential  statement.' 

Harold   thought   that   Messrs.    Blunt   and    Hume 


192  CELIBATES. 

had  acted  very  stupidly,  and  he  asked  himself 
what  Mildred  proposed  to  do  with  the  money. 
Did  she  intend  to  re-invest  it  in  French  secur- 
ities ?  Or  had  the  Roman  Catholics  persuaded  her 
to  leave  it  to  a  convent  or  to  spend  it  in  building 
a  church  ?  Or  perhaps,  Delacour  and  the  Social- 
ists have  got  hold  of  the  money.  But  Mildred 
was  never  very  generous  with  her  money.  .  .  . 
He  stepped  into  a  telegraph  office  and  stepped 
out  again  without  having  sent  a  message.  He 
wrote  a  long  letter  when  he  arrived  home,  and 
tore  it  up  when  he  had  finished  it.  It  was  not 
a  case  for  a  letter  or  telegram,  but  for  an  imme- 
diate journey.  He  could  send  a  telegram  to  the 
office,  saying  he  would  not  be  there  to-morrow ; 
he  remembered  a  business  appointment  for  Fri- 
day, which  could  not  be  broken.  But  he  could 
return  on  Thursday  morning.  .  .  .  Arrive  on 
Wednesday  night,  return  on  Thursday  morning 
or  Thursday  night,  if  he  did  not  succeed  in  see- 
ing Mildred  on  Wednesday  night.  ,  .  .  Yes,  that 
would  do  it,  but  it  would  mean  a  tedious  journey 
on  the  coldest  month  of  the  year.  But  ;£'5ooo 
was  a  large  sum  of  money,  he  must  do  what  he 
could  to  save  it.  Save  it !  Yes,  for  he  hadn't  a 
doubt  that  it  was  in  danger.  .  .  .  He  would  take 
the    train    at    Charing    Cross    to-morrow    morning. 


MILDRED   LAWSON. 


193 


...  He  would  arrive  in  Paris  about  eight.  .  .  . 
He  would  then  go  to  his  hotel,  change  his 
clothes,  dine,  and  get  to  Mildred's  about  nine 
or  half-past. 

This  was  the  course  he  adopted,  and  on  Wednes- 
day night  at  half-past  nine,  he  crossed  the  Rue 
Richlieu,  and  inquired  the  way  to  Boulevard  Pois- 
sonier.  ...  If  Mildred  were  going  to  a  ball  he 
would  be  able  to  get  half  an  hour's  conversation 
were  her  before  she  went  upstairs  to  dress.  If 
she  were  dining  out,  he  could  wait  until  she 
came  in.  She  would  not  be  later  than  eleven,  he 
thought  as  he  entered  a  courtyard.  There  were  a 
number  of  staircases,  and  he  at  last  found  him- 
self in  the  corridors  and  the  salons  of  La  voix  du 
Peuple,  which  was  printed  and  published  on  the 
first  floor.  He  addressed  questions  to  various  men 
who  passed  him  with  proofs  in  their  hands,  and, 
when  a  door  was  opened  on  the  left,  he  saw  a 
glare  of  gas  and  the  compositors  bending  over  the 
cases. 

Then  he  found  his  way  to  the  floor  above,  and 
there  doors  were  open  on  both  sides  of  the  land- 
ing; footmen  hurried  to  and  fro.  He  asked  for 
Mademoiselle  Lawson,  and  was  led  through  rooms 
decorated  with  flowers.  'They  are  giving  a  ball 
here  to-night,'  he  thought,  and   the   footmen   drew 


194  CELIBATES. 

aside  a  curtain  ;  and  in  a  small  end  room,  a  bou- 
doir dimly  lighted  and  hung  with  tapestry  and 
small  pictures  in  gold  frames,  he  found  Mildred 
sitting  on  a  couch  with  an  elderly  man,  about 
fifty. 

They  seemed  to  be  engaged  in  intimate  conver- 
sation ;  and  they  rose  abruptly,  as  if  disconcerted 
by  his  sudden  intrusion. 

'Oh,  Harold,'  said  Mildred.  .  .  .  'Why  didn't 
you  write  to  say  that  you  were  coming  vous  tombez 
comme  une  tuile.  .  .  .  Permettez-moi,  Motisieur  De- 
lacour,  de  vous  presenter  a  mon  fr^re* 

Harold  bowed  and  shook  hands  with  the  tall 
thin  man  with  the  high-bridged  nose  and  the  close- 
cut  black  hair,  fitting  close  to  his  head.  In  the 
keen  grey  eyes,  which  shone  out  of  a  studiously 
formal  face,  there  was  a  look  which  passed  from 
disdain  to  swift  interrogation,  and  then  to  an  expres- 
sion of  courteous  and  polite  welcome.  M.  Delacour 
professed  himself  delighted  to  make  Harold's  ac- 
quaintance, and  he  hoped  that  Harold  was  staying 
some  time  in  Paris.  Harold  regretted  that  he  was 
obliged  to  return  on  the  following  morning,  and 
M.  Delacour's  face  assumed  an  expression  of  dis- 
appointment. He  said  that  it  would  have  been  his 
pleasure  to  make  Harold's  stay  as  agreeable  as  pos- 
sible.    However,  on  the  occasion  of  Harold's  next 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  1 95 

visit,  M.  Delacour  hoped  that  he  could  stay  with  them. 
He  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  he  hoped  that  Harold 
would  consider  this  house  as  his  own.  Harold  thanked 
him,  and  again  expressed  regret  that  he  was  obliged 
to  leave  the  following  morning.  He  noticed  a  slight 
change  of  expression  on  the  diplomatist's  face  when 
he  mentioned  that  he  had  come  over  in  a  hurry  to 
discuss  some  business  matters  with  his  sister.  A 
moment  later  M.  Delacour  was  smiling  perfect 
approval  and  comprehension  and  moving  towards 
the  door.  At  the  door  he  lingered  to  express  a 
hope  that  Harold  would  stay  for  the  ball.  He  said 
that  Mildred  must  do  her  best  to  persuade  her 
brother  to  remain. 

The  musicians  had  just  come,  she  could  hear 
them  tuning  their  instruments.  Guests  would  soon 
arrive,  so  she  hoped  that  the  interview  would  not 
be  prolonged.  The  way  to  shorten  it  was  to  say 
nothing.  She  could  see  that  Harold  was  embar- 
rassed, silence  would  increase  his  embarrassment. 
She  knew  that  he  had  come  to  speak  about  the 
;^5000  which  she  had  taken  out  of  mortgage.  She 
knew  that  he  hoped  to  induce  her  to  re-invest  it  in 
some  good  security  at  five  per  cent.  But  she  did 
not  intend  to  take  his  advice,  or  to  inform  him 
regarding  her  relations  with  the  Delacours.  She 
knew,  too,  that  he  disapproved  of  her  dress :  it  was 


196  CELIBATES. 

certainly  cut  a  little  lower  than  she  had  intended, 
and  then  she  saw  that  his  eyes  had  wandered  to 
the  newspaper,  which  lay  open  on  the  table.  In 
a  moment  he  would  see  her  name  at  the  bottom 
of  the  first  article.  If  he  were  to  read  the  article, 
he  would  be  more  shocked  than  he  was  by  her  dress. 
It  was  even  more  d^colleUe  than  her  dress,  both 
had  come  out  a  little  more  dkollet^e  than  she  had 
intended. 

'I  see,'  he  said,  'that  you  write  in  this  paper.' 

*  A  little,  I'm  doing  a  series  of  articles  under  the 
title  of  Bal  Blanc.  My  articles  are  a  success.  I  like 
that  one  as  well  as  any,  you  shall  take  the  number 
of  the  paper  away  with  you.* 

'But  how  do  you  manage  about  writing  in 
French } ' 

'  I  write  very  easily  in  French  now,  as  easily  as 
in  English.  M.  Delacour  looks  over  my  proof,  but 
he  hardly  finds  anything  to  correct.' 

Mildred  suppressed  a  smile,  she  had  taken  in 
the  entire  situation,  and  was  determined  to  act  up 
to  it.  It  offered  an  excellent  opportunity  for  act- 
ing, and  Mildred  was  only  happy  when  she  could 
get  outside  herself.  She  crossed  her  hands  and 
composed  her  most  demure  air;  and,  for  the  sake 
of  the  audience  which  it  pleased  her  to  imagine; 
and  when  Harold  was  not  looking  she  allowed  her 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  1 97 

malicious  eyes  to  say  what  she  was  really  thinking. 
And  he,  unconscious  of  the  amusement  he  afforded, 
made  delightful  comedy.  He  tried  to  come  to  the 
point,  but  feared  to  speak  too  suddenly  of  the 
money  she  had  drawn  out  of  the  mortgage,  and,  in 
his  embarrassment,  he  took  a  book  from  the  table. 
The  character  of  the  illustrations  caused  his  face 
to  flush,  and  an  expression  of  shame  to  appear. 
Mildred  snatched  the  book  out  of  his  hand,  saying : 

'That  is  one  of  M.  Delacour's  books.' 

'  You  know  the  book,  then  ? ' 

'One  knows  everything.  You  are  not  an  artist, 
and  see  things  in  a  different  light.' 

'  I  don't  think  that  art  has  much  to  do  with  a  book 
of  that  kind.  You  must  have  changed  very  much, 
Mildred.' 

'  No,'  she  said,  '  that  shows  me  how  little  you 
understand  me.     I  have  not  changed  at  all.' 

The  word  suggested  the  idea,  and  he  said,  'you 
have  changed  your  religion.  You've  become  a 
Roman  Catholic.      I  must  say,  if  that  book  is ' 

*  That  book  has  nothing  to  do  with  me.  I  glanced 
at  it  once,  that  was  all,  and,  when  I  saw  what  it  was, 
I  put  it  down.' 

The  subject  was  a  painful  one,  and  Harold  was 
willing  to  let  it  drop. 

*  But  why,'  he  said,  '  did  you  go  over  to  Rome } 


198  CELIBATES. 

Wasn't   the  religion  you  were  brought  up  in  good 
enough  for  you?' 

*  I  was  so  unhappy  at  the  time.  I  had  suffered  a 
great  deal,  I  didn't  believe  in  anything  —  I  did  not 
know  what  was  going  to  become  of  me.' 

*  Didn't  believe  in  anything,  Mildred  —  I'm  very 
sorry.  .  .  .  But,  if  you  found  difficulty  in  accepting 
Protestantism,  Catholicism,  I  should  have  thought, 
would  be  still  more  impossible.  It  makes  so  much 
a  larger  demand  on  faith.' 

The  discovery  of  the  book  had  for  a  moment 
forced  her  out  of  the  part  she  was  playing,  but  relig- 
ious discussion  afforded  her  ample  facility,  which  she 
eagerly  availed  herself  of,  to  return  to  it. 

*  You  do  not  understand  women.' 

'But  what  has  understanding  women  to  do  with 
a  religious  question  ? '  Harold  asked  a  little  more 
petulantly  than  usual. 

These  were  the  words  and  intonation  she  had 
expected,  and  she  smiled  inwardly. 

'  Women's  lives  are  so  different  from  men,  we  need 
a  more  intimate  consolation  than  Protestantism  can 
give  us.     Our  sense  of  the  beauty ' 

*  The  old  story,  those  who  find  difficulty  in  believ- 
ing in  the  divinity  of  our  Lord  will  swallow  infalli- 
bility, transubstantiation,  and  the  rest  of  it — all  the 
miracles,  and  the  entire  hierarchy  of  the  saints,  male 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  1 99 

and  female,  if  they  may  be  gratified  by  music,  can- 
dles, incense,  gold  vestments,  and  ceremonial  display. 
...     It  is  not  love  of  God,  it  is  love  of  the  senses.' 

'  Oufait  la  guerre  avec  de  la  musiqtie,  des  panaches, 
des  drapeaux,  des  harnais  d'or,  un  d^ploiement  de 
cirimonie! 

'What's  that.?' 

'That  is  from  the  Tentation  de  Saint  Antoine.  It 
comes  in  the  dialogue  between  Death  and  Lust. 
They  make  war  with  music,  with  banners,  with 
plumes,  with  golden  trappings,  and  ceremonial  dis- 
play.' 

*  What's  that  got  to  do  with  what  we  were  say- 
ing?' 

*  Only  that  you  accidentally  made  use  of  nearly  the 
same  words  as  Flaubert.  "  Ceremonial  display  "  is 
not  so  good  as  d^ploiement  de  cMmonie,  but ' 

'  Mildred.' 

'  Well.' 

She  wore  a  little  subdued  look,  and  he  did  not 
detect  the  malice  that  it  superficially  veiled.  She 
did  not  wish  him  to  see  that  she  was  playing  with 
him,  but  she  wished  to  fret  him  with  some  slight 
suspicion  that  she  was.  She  was  at  the  same  time 
conscious  of  his  goodness,  and  her  own  baseness  ; 
she  even  longed  to  throw  herself  into  his  arms,  and 
thank  him  for  having  come  to  Paris ;  she  knew  that 


2(X)  CELIBATES. 

it  was  in  her  interest  that  he  had  come,  but  an  in- 
stinct stronger  than  her  will  forced  her  to  continue 
improvising  the  words  of  her  part,  and  it  was  her 
pleasure  to  provide  it  with  suitable  gesture,  expres- 
sion of  face,  and  inflection  of  voice.  She  could  hear 
the  fiddles  in  the  ball-room,  and  wished  the  wall 
away,  and  the  company  ranged  behind  a  curtain. 
And,  as  these  desires  crossed  her  mind,  she  pitied 
poor  Harold  with  his  one  idea,  'how  he  may  serve 
fne'  When  she  came  to  the  word  me  her  heart  soft- 
ened towards  him,  but  the  temptation  to  discuss  her 
conversion  with  him  was  imperative,  and  she  watched 
him,  guessing  easily  how  his  idea  of  Catholicism 
turned  in  his  narrow  brain,  and  she  knew  that  turn 
it  as  he  pleased,  that  he  would  get  no  nearer  to  any 
understanding  of  it  or  of  her.  Religion  was  a  fixed 
principle  in  his  life ;  it  was  there  as  his  head,  neck, 
and  arms  were  there ;  and  it  played  a  very  definite 
part  in  his  life ;  his  religion  was  not  a  doll  that 
could  be  dressed  to  suit  the  humours  of  the  day,  but 
an  unchanging  principle  that  ruled,  that  was  obeyed, 
and  that  visited  all  fallings  away  with  remorse.  So 
this  opportunity  to  play  with  her  brother's  religious 
consciousness  was  to  be  gainsayed  no  more  than  an 
opportunity  to  persuade  a  lover  into  exhibition  of 
passion.  And  she  remembered  how  Harold  and 
Alfred  used  to  sit  over  the  dining-room  fire  shaking 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  20I 

their  heads  over  the  serious  scandal  that  had  been 
caused  in  the  parish  by  the  new  Vicar,  who  had 
introduced  the  dangerous  innovation  of  preaching  in 
his  surplice.  She  had  laughed  and  sneered  at  her 
brother's  hesitations  and  scruples  about  accepting 
the  surplice  for  the  black  robe,  and  now  she  won- 
dered if  he  would  ask  her  if  she  considered  it  a 
matter  of  no  importance  if  the  priests  put  on  vest- 
ments to  say  Mass,  or  if  there  were  wine  and  water 
in  the  cruets. 

She  had,  as  she  had  told  her  brother,  embraced 
Catholicism  in  a  time  of  suffering  and  depression, 
when  she  had  fancied  herself  very  near  to  suicide, 
when  she  didn't  know  what  else  was  going  to 
become  of  her.  Her  painting  had  failed,  and  she 
had  gone  to  Barbizon  a  wreck  of  abandoned  hopes. 
She  had  gone  there  because  at  that  moment  it  was 
necessary  to  create  some  interest  in  her  life.  And 
Barbizon  had  succeeded  in  a  way  —  she  had  liked 
Morton,  and  it  was  not  her  fault  if  he  had  failed  to 
understand  her,  that  was  one  of  the  reasons  why 
she  had  left  Barbizon,  and  her  distress  of  mind  on 
leaving  was  the  result  of  indiscretions  which  she 
did  not  like  to  remember.  True  it  was  that  she  had 
not  actually  been  his  mistress,  but  she  had  gone 
further  than  she  had  intended  to  go,  and  she  had 
felt  that  she  must  leave  Barbizon  at  once.     For  her 


202  CELIBATES. 

chastity  was  her  one  safeguard,  if  she  were  to  lose 
that,  she  had  always  felt,  and  never  more  strongly 
than  after  the  Barbizon  episode,  that  there  would  be 
no  safety  for  her.  She  knew  that  her  safety  lay  in 
her  chastity,  others  might  do  without  chastity,  and 
come  out  all  right  in  the  end,  but  she  could  not : 
an  instinct  told  her  so. 

There  had  been  moments  when  she  had  wondered 
if  she  were  really  quite  sane.  Something  had  to 
happen  —  Catholicism  had  happened,  and  she  had 
gone  to  travel  with  the  Delacours.  Madame  Dela- 
cour  was  a  strict  Catholic  and  was  therefore  inter- 
ested in  Mildred's  conversion.  And  with  her  Mildred 
went  to  Mass,  high  and  low,  vespers  and  benediction. 
She  selected  an  old  priest  for  confessor,  who  gave 
her  absolution  without  hearing  half  she  said ;  and 
she  went  to  communion  and  besought  of  M.  Delacour 
never  to  laugh  at  her  when  she  was  in  one  of  her 
religious  moods.  These  occurred  at  undetermined 
intervals,  speaking  broadly,  about  every  two  months  ; 
they  lasted  sometimes  a  week,  sometimes  a  fort- 
night. In  her  moods  she  was  a  strict  Catholic,  but 
as  they  wore  away  she  grew  more  loose,  and  Madame 
Delacour  noticed  Mildred's  absentations  from  Mass. 
Mildred  answered  that  she  was  a  Newmanite  and 
was  more  concerned  with  the  essential  spirit  of 
Catholicism  than  with  its  outward  practice ;  and  she 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  203 

adopted  the  same  train  of  argument  when  Harold 
asked  her  if  she  believed  that  the  bread  and  wine 
consecrated  and  swallowed  by  the  priest  was  the 
real  Body  and  Blood  of  God.     She  replied: 

'I  take  all  that  as  a  symbol.' 

*  But  Catholicism  imposes  the  belief  that  it  is  the 
real  Body  and  Blood.' 

Mildred  passed  off  her  perplexity  with  a  short 
laugh,  'You're  always  the  same/  she  said,  'you 
never  get  farther  than  externals.  I  remember  how 
you  and  Alfred  used  to  shake  your  heads  over  the 
surplice  and  the  black  robe  question.  .  .  .  You're 
an  enemy  of  ritualism,  and  yet  I  know  no  one  more 
ritualistic  than  you  are,  only  your  ritual  is  not  ours. 
You  cannot  listen  to  a  sermon  if  the  preacher  wears 
a  surplice,  you  waive  the  entire  merit  of  the  sermon, 
and  see  nothing  but  the  impudent  surplice.  All 
the  beautiful  instruction  passes  unheeded,  and  your 
brows  gather  into  a  frown  black  as  the  robe  that 
isn't  there,  ...  I  believe  that  you  would  insist 
that  Christ  Himself  should  ascend  into  Heaven  in 
a  black  robe,  and  you  would  send  the  goats  to  hell 
draped  in  samite  and  white  linen.'  Her  paradoxical 
imagination  of  the  ascent  into  Heaven  and  the 
judgment-seat  amused  her,  and  the  glimpse  she  had 
caught  of  her  brother's  portentous  gravity  curled 
her  up  like  a  cigarette    paper.      But  he   was  too 


204  CELIBATES. 

shocked  for    speech,    and    Mildred    strove  to  curb 
her  hilarity. 

'No,'  she  said,  'you  can  never  get  farther  than 
externals,  you  are  the  true  ritualist,  the  Pope  is  not 
more  so.'  Harold's  face  now  wore  an  expression 
of  such  awful  gravity  that  Mildred  could  hardly  con- 
tain herself,  she  bit  her  lips  and  continued  :  '  But 
ritual  hardly  concerns  me  at  all.  I  was  received 
into  the  Church  before  I  had  ever  heard  Mass.  I 
am  not  interested  in  externals ;  I  think  of  the  essen- 
tials, and  Catholicism  seems  to  me  to  be  essentially 
right.  A  great  deal  of  it  I  look  upon  as  symbolism. 
I  am  a  Catholic,  but  my  Catholicism  is  my  own  :  I 
am  a  Newmanite.  If  there  be  no  future  life  and  all 
is  mistake,  then  Catholicism  is  a  sublime  mistake  ; 
if  there  be  a  future  life,  then  we're  on  the  right  side,' 

*  I'm  afraid  there  is  little  use  in  our  discussing  this 
subject,  Mildred.  We  feel  religion  very  differently. 
You  say  that  I  don't  understand  women,  it  seems  to 
me  that  some  women  do  not  understand  religion.  .  .  . 
They  have  never  originated  any  religious  movement.' 

'  There  have  been  great  saints  among  women ; 
there  have  been  great  Roman  Catholic  saints.' 

'  Mildred,  really  this  discussion  is  futile,  not  to 
say  exasperating.  Don't  you  hear  the  fiddles  in  the 
next  room,  they're  playing  a  waltz.' 

Mildred  had  heard  the  fiddlers  all  the  while,  with- 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  205 

out  them  the  conversation  would  have  been  shorn 
of  most  of  its  interest  for  her. 

*  We  have  wandered  very  far  from  the  subject  on 
which  I  came  to  talk  to  you  —  the  matter  which  I 
came  to  Paris  to  talk  to  you  about.' 

Mildred  suppressed  a  smile.  She  had  annoyed 
him  sufficiently,  there  was  no  reason  why  she  should 
press  this  interview  towards  a  quarrel.  Harold 
paused  a  moment  and  then  said  : 

'  I  hear  from  our  solicitors  that  you  have  drawn 
five  thousand  pounds  out  of  first-class  mortgages. 
Now,  this  is  a  large  sum  of  money.  How  do  you 
intend  to  re-invest  it }  I  don't  see  how  you  could 
get  better  interest  than  you  have  been  getting 
unless  you  accept  doubtful  security.  I  hope  that 
neither  this  paper  La  Voix  du  Peuple  or  Panama 
has  tempted  you.' 

'  It  is  very  kind  of  you,  Harold,  to  come  to  Paris 
to  inquire  into  this  matter.  You  won't  think  that  I 
am  ungrateful,  will  you } ' 

'No.' 

'  Then  I  would  sooner  say  nothing  about  this 
money.  ...  I  have  re-invested  it,  and  I  think 
well  invested  it.  I  am  satisfied,  it  is  my  own  money. 
I  am  of  age  and  quite  capable  of  judging.' 

'  You  know  a  great  deal  more  than  I  do,  Mildred, 
about  art  and  literature  and  all  that  kind  of  thing, 


206  CELIBATES. 

but  I  have  had  business  experience  that  you  have 
not,  and  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  tell  you  if  you  have 
invested  your  money  in  La  Voix  du  Peuple  that  I 
can  only  look  upon  it  as  lost.' 

'  Come,  Harold.  Let  us  admit,  for  the  sake  of 
argument,  that  I  have  invested  the  whole  or  part 
of  my  money  in  this  paper.' 

'Then  you  have  done  so.  If  you  hadn't,  you 
would  not  feel  inclined  to  discuss  hypothetical  in- 
vestments.' 

'  Why  not }  For  you  impugn  the  integrity  of  my 
dearest  friends.  The  circulation  of  the  paper  is 
going  up  steadily.  When  we  reach  sixty  thousand 
I  shall  have  invested  my  money,  supposing  I  have 
put  it  into  the  paper  at  twenty  per  cent.,  and  will 
then  receive  not  ;!£^250  but  ;^iooo  a  year.  You  will 
admit  there  is  a  difference.' 

'I  should  think  there  was.  I  wish  I  could  get 
twenty  per  cent,  for  my  money.  But  I  thought  that 
getting  a  big  interest  for  money  was  against  your 
principles.  I  thought  that  the  Socialists  said  that 
interest  was  "  unpaid  labour."  Isn't  that  the  expres- 
sion you  use  ? ' 

*  Yes,  it  is.  I  had  scruples  on  this  point,  but 
M.  Delacour  overruled  my  scruples.  Your  objec- 
tion is  answered  by  the  theory  that  individual 
sacrifice  is  unavailing :   indeed,  it  is   as  useless  as 


MILDRED   LAWSON. 


207 


giving  charity,  quite.  A  case  of  intense  suffering 
is  brought  under  the  notice  of  a  bourgeois;  it 
awakens  in  him  a  certain  hysterical  pity,  or,  I 
should  say,  remorse,  for  he  feels  that  a  system  that 
permits  such  things  to  be  cannot  be  wholly  right. 
He  relieves  this  suffering,  and  then  he  thinks  he 
is  a  virtuous  man ;  he  thinks  he  has  done  a  good 
action ;  but  a  moment's  reflection  shows  us  that 
this  good  action  is  only  selfishness  in  disguise  — 
that  it  is  nothing  more  than  a  personal  gratifica- 
tion, a  balm  to  his  wound,  which,  by  a  sort  of 
reflective  action,  he  has  received  from  outraged 
humanity.  Charity  is  of  no  use ;  it  is  individual, 
and  nothing  individual  is  of  any  value ;  the  move- 
ment must  be  general' 

*  It  seems  to  me  that  pity  is  a  human  sentiment, 
that  it  always  existed.  In  all  ages  there  has  been 
pity  for  the  blind,  the  lame,  the  deformed,  never 
was  pity  so  general,  or  so  ardent  as  in  the  nine- 
teenth century,  but  it  always  existed  for  the  poor 
of  spirit  and  the  feeble  of  body,  and  these  are  not 
the  victims  of  our  social  system ;  they  are  nature's 
victims.' 

Mildred  did  not  answer,  and  they  heard  the 
fiddles,  the  piano,  and  then  the  cornet. 

*  The  Delacours  entertain  a  great  deal,  I  suppose : 
on  the  first   floor  the    editor  writes    that    property 


208  CELIBATES. 

is  robbery,  and  advocates  an  equal  division  of  prop- 
erty ;  on  the  second  floor  he  spends  the  money  he 
gets  out  of  the  people  by  holding  illusory  hopes  of 
an  approaching  spoliation  of  the  rich,  and  advocat- 
ing investment  in  a  fraudulent  enterprise  like  Pan- 
ama. .  .  .  You  always  accuse  me  of  want  of  hu- 
mour, but  I  have  sufficient  to  appreciate  The  Voice 
of  the  People  on  the  first  floor  and  the  voice  of  the 
ball  on  the  second.' 

At  that  moment  M.  Delacour  opened  the  door 
of  the  boudoir: 

'Forgive  me,'  he  said,  'for  interrupting  you, 
but  I  wanted  to  tell  that  every  one  has  read  your 
article.  It  is  a  great  success,  spirituel,  charmant, 
surtout  trh  parisien,  that's  what  is  said  on  every 
side.' 

Mildred's  face  flushed  with  pleasure,  and,  turn- 
ing to  Harold,  she  said : 

'  I  am  writing  a  series  of  articles  in  La  Voix  du 
Peuple  under  the  title  of  Bal  Blanc' 

'  Have  you  not  seen  your  sister's  articles,  M. 
Lawson  1 '  asked  M.  Delacour. 

'No,  Mildred  did  not  send  them  to  me,  and  I 
rarely  see  the  French  papers  in  London.' 

Mildred  looked  at  M.  Delacour,  and  Harold  read 
in  her  eyes  that  she  was  annoyed  that  M.  Delacour 
had  called  attention  to  the  article.     He  asked  him- 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  209 

self  why  this  was,  and,  when  M.  Delacour  left  the 
room,  he  took  up  the  paper.  He  read  a  few  lines 
and  then  Mildred  said : 

'  I  cannot  remain  much  longer  away  from  my 
guests.' 

'Your  guests.'* 

*  Yes ;  they  are  my  guests  in  a  way,  the  ball  was 
given  for  me.' 

'  You  can  go  to  them ;  I  can  remain  here  I  sup- 
pose.    I  can  see  you  later  on.' 

Mildred  did  not  answer,  and,  while  Harold  looked 
through  the  article,  her  face  darkened,  and  she  bit 
her  lips  twice.     At  last  she  said  : 

'  We  had  better  finish :  I  cannot  remain  away 
any  longer  from  my  guests,  and  I  shall  be  engaged 
the  rest  of  the  evening.  There's  no  use  in  your 
reading  that  article.  You  won't  like  it.  You  won't 
approve  of  it.' 

*  I  certainly  do  not  approve  of  it,  and  are  all 
the  articles  you  write  under  this  title  of  the  same 
character } ' 

*I  can't  see  anything  wrong  in  it.  Of  course 
you  can  read  meanings  into  it  that  I  don't  intend 
if  you  like.' 

'  I  am  afraid  that  your  articles  must  give  people 
a  very  false  idea  of  you.' 

'  Every  one  who  knows  me  knows  that  I  would 


210  CELIBATES. 

not  do  anything  wrong,  that  I  am  not  that  kind 
of  woman.  You  need  not  be  afraid,  I  shall  not 
disgrace  you.' 

'  I'm  not  thinking  of  myself,  Mildred.  I  am  sure 
you  would  not  do  anything  wrong,  that  you  would 
not  disgrace  yourself;  I  was  merely  wondering 
what  people  would  think.  Do  the  priests  approve 
of  this  kind  of  writing  ? ' 

'I  don't  submit  my  writings  to  my  Confessor,' 
Mildred  answered  laughing. 

*  And  your  position  in  this  house.  Your  intimacy 
with  M.  Delacour.  I  found  you  sitting  side  by  side 
on  this  sofa.' 

'I  never  heard  before  that  there  was  any  harm  in 
sitting  on  a  sofa  with  a  man.  But  there  are  people 
who  see  immorality  in  every  piece  of  furniture  in  a 
drawing-room.' 

*  You  seemed  very  intimate,  that's  all.  What  does 
Madame  Delacour  say  ?  Does  she  approve  of  this 
intimacy  ? ' 

*  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  What  intimacy  ? 
Madame  Delacour  does  not  see  any  harm  in  my  sit- 
ting on  a  sofa  with  her  husband.  She  knows  me 
very  well.  She  knows  that  I  wouldn't  do  anything 
wrong.  She's  my  most  intimate  friend ;  she  is  quite 
satisfied,  I  can  assure  you.  I'll  introduce  you  to 
her  as  you  go  out.' 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  211 

'  I  see  you  are  anxious  to  join  your  company,  I  must 
not  keep  you  from  your  guests  any  longer.  I  sup- 
pose I  shall  not  see  you  again,  I  return  to-morrow.' 

'  Then  it  is  good-bye.' 

*I  suppose  so,  unless  you  return  with  me.' 

*  Return  to  Sutton  ta  look  after  your  house ! ' 

*  I  don't  want  you  to  look  after  my  house ;  you  can 
have  a  housekeeper.  I'm  sorry  you  think  that  is 
why  I  want  you  to  return.  Perhaps  you  think  that 
is  why  I  came  over.     Oh,  Mildred  ! ' 

*  Harold,  I'm  sorry.  I  did  not  think  such  a  thing. 
It  was  good  of  you  to  come  to  Paris.  Harold,  you're 
not  angry.?' 

'No,  Mildred,  I'm  not  angry.  But  all  this  seems 
strange  to  me  :  this  house,  these  people,  this  paper.' 

'  I  know,  I  know.  But  we  cannot  all  think  alike. 
We  never  did  think  alike.  But  that  should  not  in- 
terfere in  our  affection  for  one  another.  We  should 
love  each  other.  We  are  alone  in  the  world,  father 
and  mother  both  gone,  only  a  few  aunts  and  cousins 
that  we  don't  care  about.' 

*Do  you  ever  think  of  what  father  and  mother 
would  say  if  they  knew  ?  What  would  they  think 
of  your  choosing  to  leave  home  to  live  with  these 
people  ? ' 

*  Do  not  let  us  argue  these  things,  we  shall  never 
agree.' 


212  CELIBATES. 

The  affection  which  had  suddenly  warmed  her  had 
departed,  and  her  heart  had  grown  cold  as  stone 
again. 

'  Each  must  be  free  to  choose  his  or  her  life.'  ' 

*  You  surely  don't  intend  always  to  live  here  ? ' 

*  Always  ?  I  don't  know  about  always,  for  the 
present  certainly.' 

*Then  there  is  nothing  but  to  say  good-bye.' 


XIX. 

One  evening  in  spring  Mildred  returned  home. 
Harold  had  not  long  returned  from  the  city,  the 
candles  were  lighted.  He  was  sitting  in  the  draw- 
ing-room thinking,  thinking  of  her. 

*  Mildred  !  is  that  you  ^ ' 

'Yes,  how  do  you  do,  Harold.?' 

'Come  and  sit  near  the  fire,  you've  had  a  cold 
journey.     When  did  you  return.?' 

'  Last  night.  We  had  a  dreadful  crossing,  I  stayed 
in  bed  all  the  morning.  That  was  why  I  didn't 
come  to  see  you  in  the  city.' 

Harold  sat  for  some  moments  without  speaking, 
looking  into  the  fire. 

Reticence  was  natural  to  him ;  he  refrained  from 
questioning  her,  and  thought  instead  of  some  harm- 
less subject  of  conversation.  Her  painting  ?  But 
she  had  abandoned  painting.  Her  money }  she  had 
lost  it !  .  .  .  that  was  the  trouble  she  was  in.  He 
had  warned  her  against  putting  her  money  into  that 
paper,  .  .  .  But  there  was  no  use  worrying  her,  she 
would  tell  him  presently.     Besides,  there  was   not 

213 


214  CELIBATES. 

time  to  talk  about  it  now,  dinner  would  soon  be 
ready. 

'  It  is  now  half-past  six,  don't  you  think  you'd 
better  go  upstairs  and  get  ready .'' ' 

'  Oh,  don't  bother  me  about  the  dinner,  Harold. 
What  does  it  matter  if  it  is  a  few  minutes  late.  I 
can't  go  upstairs  yet.     I  want  to  sit  here.' 

She  looked  round  the  room  and  remembered  how 
her  father  used  to  sit  in  the  chair  Harold  was  sitting 
in.  He  was  getting  bald  just  like  father.  He 
looked  just  like  father,  his  head  seen  against  the 
book-cases,  the  light  catching  the  ends  of  his  bristly 
hair.  But  who  was  she  like.?  she  didn't  know,  not 
like  poor  dear  mother  who  thought  of  nothing  but 
her  husband  and  her  children.  From  whom  had  she 
got  her  tastes,  her  taste  for  painting  —  her  ideas, 
God  knows.  She  wished  she  were  like  other  people. 
Like  Harold.  Yet  she  didn't  know  that  she  would 
like  to  be  quite  so  simple,  so  matter  of  fact.  They 
were  only  like  in  one  thing,  neither  had  married. 
She  had  never  thought  of  that  before,  and  wondered 
why.  But  he  would  marry  one  of  these  days.  He 
wasn't  forty  yet.  Then  she  would  have  to  leave 
Sutton,  she  couldn't  live  there  with  a  step-sister. 

'  So  you're  not  married  yet,  Harold.' 

'  No,  not  yet.' 

'Not  even  engaged?' 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  215 

*No,  not  even  engaged.' 
'  I  suppose  you  will  one  of  these  days.' 
'  Perhaps,  one  of  these  days,  but  I'm  in  no  hurry. 
And  you,  are  you  as  much  set  against  marriage  as 
ever.^     Alfred    Stanby   has   never   married,   I   don't 
think  he  ever  will.     I  think  you  broke  his  heart.' 
'  I  don't  believe  in  breaking  men's  hearts.' 
'  You  are  just  the  kind  of  woman  who  does  break 
men's  hearts.' 

'  Why  do  you  say  that  ?     You  think  me  heartless.' 

*  No,  Mildred,  I  don't  think  you  heartless  —  only 
you're  not  like  other  girls.' 

*  No,  I'm  not.  I've  too  much  heart,  that's  been  my 
misfortune,  I  should  have  got  on  better  if  I  had  less.' 

Harold  had  no  aptitude  or  taste  of  philosophical 
reflections,  so  he  merely  mentioned  that  Alfred  was 
living  in  Sutton,  and  hoped  that  Mildred  would  not 
mind  meeting  him. 

'No,  I  don't  mind  meeting  him,  but  he  may  not 
like  to  meet  me.     Does  he  ever  speak  of  me  ? ' 

'Yes,  he  does  sometimes.  ...  I  never  knew 
why  you  threw  him  over.  He's  really  a  very  good 
fellow.  He  has  worked  hard  and  is  now  making  a 
fair  income.' 

*  I'm  glad  of  that.  ...  I  suppose  I  did  treat  him 
badly.  But  no  worse  than  men  treat  women  every 
day.' 


2l6  CELIBATES. 

'Why  did  you  throw  him  over?* 

*  I  don't  know.  It's  so  long  ago.  He  didn't  under- 
stand me.  I  thought  I  should  find  some  one  who 
did.  ,  ,  .     I  know  the  world  better  now.' 

'Would  you  marry  him  if  he  were  to  propose 
again  ,-* ' 

'I  don't  know,  I  don't  know.  ,  ,  .  I  don't  know 
what  I  should  do  now.     Don't  question  me,  Harold.' 

At  that  moment  the  gong  sounded  for  dinner. 
Harold  refrained  from  saying  *  I  knew  you'd  be  late.' 
An  hour  after,  brother  and  sister  were  sitting  by 
the  library  fire.     At  last  Harold  said: 

'I'm  glad  you're  going  to  stop  here  for  the 
present,  that  you're  not  going  back  to  Paris.  Do 
you  never  intend  to  live  there  again  ? ' 

'There's  no  reason  why  I  should  go  back,  cer- 
tainly none  that  I  should  live  there  again,  my  life  in 
Paris  is  ended.' 

She  did  not  recount  her  misfortunes  in  plain 
straightforward  narrative,  her  story  fluctuated  and 
transpired  in  inflections  of  voice  and  picturesque 
glances.  She  was  always  aware  of  the  effect  of  her- 
self on  others,  and  she  forgot  a  great  deal  of  her  dis- 
appointment in  the  pleasure  of  astonishing  Harold. 
The  story  unwound  itself  like  spun  silk.  The  prin- 
cipal spool  was  the  Panama  scandals,  .  .  .  But 
around   it   there  were   little   spools   full   of  various 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  21/ 

thread,  a  little  of  which  Mildred  unwound  from  time 
to  time. 

'  When  the  first  accusations  against  the  Deputies 
were  made,  I  warned  him.  I  told  him  that  the 
matter  would  not  stop  there,  but  he  was  over  con- 
fident.    Moreover,    I   warned   him   against   Darres.* 

*  Who's  Darres?' 

*  Oh,  he  was  the  secretaire  de  la  redaction  and  a 
sort  of  partner.  But  I  never  liked  him.  I  gave  him 
one  look.  ...  I  told  M.  Delacour  not  to  trust  him. 
.  .  .  And  he  knew  that  I  suspected  him.  He  ad- 
mired me,  I  could  see  that,  but  he  wasn't  my  kind 
of  man :  a  tall,  bullet  -  headed  fellow,  shoulders 
thrown  well  back,  the  type  of  the  sous  officier,  le 
beau  soudard,  smelling  of  the  caf6  and  a  cigarette. 
A  plain  sensualist.  I  can  tell  them  at  once,  and 
when  he  saw  that  I  was  not  that  kind  of  person,  he 
went  and  made  love  to  Madame  Delacour.  She 
was  only  too  glad  to  listen  to  him.' 

'  Is  Madame  Delacour  good-looking } ' 
'  I    daresay   she's  what   some    people   would   call 
good-looking.     But    she    has   wretched    health,    she 
never  got  over  the  birth  of  her  last  child.' 

Madame  Delacour's  health  was  the  subject  of 
many  disparaging  remarks,  in  the  course  of  which 
Mildred  called  into  question  the  legitimacy  of  one 
of  her  children,  and  the  honourability  of  Darres  as 


21 8  CELIBATES. 

a  card-player.  The  conversation  at  last  turned  on 
Panama.  M.  Delacour  had,  of  course,  denied  the 
charge  of  blackmail  and  bribery.  Neither  had  been 
proved  against  him.  Nevertheless,  his  constituency 
had  refused  to  re-elect  him.  That,  of  course,  had 
ruined  him  politically.  Nothing  had  been  proved 
against  him,  but  he  had  merely  failed  to  explain  how 
he  had  lived  at  the  rate  of  twelve  thousand  a  year 
for  the  last  three  years. 
'But  the  paper .^' 

'The  paper  never  was  a  pecuniary  success.' 
'The  money  you  put  into  it,  I  suppose,  is  lost.' 
'  For  the  present  at  all  events.     Things  may  right 
themselves,  Delacour  may  come  up  to  the  top  of  the 
wheel  again.' 

'  He   must   have   cheated  you,  he  swindled  you.* 
'  I  suppose  he  did,  but  he  was  very  hard  pressed 
at   the   time.     He  didn't  know  where  to  turn   for 
money.' 

Harold  was  surprised  by  the  gentleness  of  Mil- 
dred's tone. 

'You  must  give  me  the  particulars,  and  I'll  do 
all   that   can    be   done   to   get    back   your   money. 

Now  tell  me  how ' 

'  Yes,  you  shall  have  all  the  particulars,'  she 
said,  'but  I'm  afraid  that  you'll  not  be  able  to  do 
much.' 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  219 

'  What  were  the  conditions  ? ' 

*  I  cannot  talk  about  them  now,  I'm  too  tired.' 
There  was  a  petulant   note   in   her   voice  which 

told  Harold  that  it  would  be  useless  to  question 
her.  He  smoked  his  pipe  and  listened,  and,  in 
her  low  musical  and  so  well-modulated  voice,  she 
continued  her  tale  about  herself,  M.  Delacour,  La 
Voix  du  Peuple,  and  M.  Darres.  Her  conversation 
was  full  of  names  and  allusions  to  matters  of 
which  Harold  knew  nothing.  He  failed  to  follow 
her  tale,  and  his  thoughts  reverted  to  the  loss  of 
three  thousand  pounds  in  the  shocking  Voix  du 
Peuple  and  two  thousand  in  scandalous  Panama. 
Every  now  and  then  something  surprising  in  her 
tale  caught  his  ear,  he  asked  for  precise  informa- 
tion, but  Mildred  answered  evasively  and  turned 
the  conversation.  She  was  much  more  interested 
in  the  influence  M.  Delacour  had  exercised  over 
her.  She  admitted  that  she  had  liked  him  very 
much,  and  attributed  the  influence  he  had  exer- 
cised to  hypnotism  and  subordination  of  will.  She 
had,  however,  refused  to  run  away  with  him  when 
he  had  asked  her. 

'You    mean   to  say   that   he   asked   you   to   run 
away  with  him  —  a  married  man } ' 

*  Yes ;  but  I  said  no.     I  knew  that  it  would  ruin 
him   to   run   away  with   me.     I   told   him   that  he 


220  CELIBATES. 

must  not  go  away  either  with  me  or  alone,  that  he 
must  face  his  enemies  and  overcome  them.  I  was 
a  true  friend.' 

*  It  is  most  extraordinary.  You  must  have  been 
very  intimate  for  him  to  propose  such  a  thing.' 

'  Yes ;  we  were  very  intimate,  but,  when  it  came 
to  the  point,  I  felt  that  I  couldn't.' 

*  Came  to  the  point ! ' 

It  was  impossible  to  lead  Mildred  into  further 
explanation,  and  she  spoke  of  the  loss  of  the 
paper.  It  had  passed  into  the  hands  of  M.  Darres ; 
he  had  changed  the  staff;  he  had  refused  her 
articles,  that  was  the  extraordinary  part ;  explained 
the  unwisdom  Darres  had  showed  in  hi^  editor- 
ship. The  paper  was  now  a  wreck.  He  had 
changed  its  policy,  and  the  circulation  had  sunk 
from  sixty  to  twenty-five  thousand.  Harold  cared 
nothing  whether  La  Voix  du  Peuple  was  well  or 
badly  edited,  except  so  far  as  its  prosperity  prom- 
ised hope  of  the  recovery  of  the  money  Mil- 
dred had  invested  in  it ;  and  he  had  begun  to 
feel  that  the  paper  was  not  responsible  for  M. 
Delacour's  debts,  and  that  Mildred's  money  was 
lost  irretrievably.  He  was  thinking  of  M.  Delacour 
and  the  proposal  he  had  made  to  Mildred,  that 
they  should  go  away  together.  M.  .  Delacour,  a 
married  man !    But  his  wife  must  have  been  aware 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  221 

of  her  husband's  intimacy,  of  his  love  for  Mil- 
dred. 

*But  wasn't  Madame  Delacour  jealous  of  you,  of 
your  intimacy  with  her  husband  ? ' 

'She  knew  there  was  nothing  wrong.  .  .  .  But 
she  accused  me  of  kissing  her  husband ;  that  was 
spite.' 

'But  it  wasn't  true.?' 

'  No ;  certainly  it  wasn't  true.  I  wonder  you 
can  ask  me.  But,  after  that,  it  was  impossible  for 
me  to  stay  any  longer  in  the  house.' 

*  Where  is  Madame  Delacour,  is  she  with  her 
husband  ? ' 

*  No ;  she's  separated  from  him.  She's  gone 
back  to  her  own  people.  She  lives  with  them 
somewhere  in  the  south  near  Pau,  I  think.' 

'  She's  not  with    Darres  .-* ' 

Mildred  hesitated. 

'  No ;  she's  not  living  with  him ;  but  I  daresay 
they   see   each   other   occasionally.' 

'They  can't  see  each  other  very  often  if  she's 
living  near  Pau,  and  he's  editing  a  paper  in 
Paris.' 


XX. 

One  morning  after  breakfast  Harold  said  as  he 
rose  from  table,  'You  must  be  very  lonely  here. 
Don't  you  think  you  would  like  some  one  to  keep 
you  company  ?  Mrs.  Fargus  is  in  London ;  we 
might  ask  her,  she'd  be  glad  to  come;  you  used 
to  like  her.' 

'That's  a  long  while  ago.  I  don't  think  she'd 
amuse  me  now,' 

'She'd  talk  about  art,  about  things  that  interest 
you.  I'm  away  all  day,  and  when  I  come  home 
in  the  evening  I'm  tired.  I'm  no  society  for  you, 
I  know  that.' 

'  No,  Harold,  I  assure  you  I'm  all  right ;  don't 
worry  about  me.  I  shouldn't  care  to  have  Mrs. 
Fargus  here.  If  I  did  I'd  say  so.  I  know  that 
you're  anxious  to  please  me.  I  like  you  better 
than  any  one  else.' 

'  But  I  don't  understand  you,  Mildred.  We  never 
did  understand  each  other.  Our  tastes  are  so  differ- 
ent,' he  added  hastily,  lest  his  words  might  be 
construed  into  a  reproach. 

222 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  223 

'  Oh  yes,  we  understand  each  other  very  well.  I 
used  to  think  we  didn't.  ...  I  don't  think  there's 
anything  in  me  that  any  one  could  not  understand. 
I  am  afraid  I'm  a  very  ordinary  person.' 

*  But  I  can  see  that  you're  bored.  I  don't  mean 
that  you  show  it.  But  it  would  be  impossible  other- 
wise, all  alone  in  this  house  all  day  by  yourself. 
You  used  to  read  a  great  deal.  You  never  read 
now.  Are  there  any  books  I  can  bring  you  from 
London  ?  Do  you  want  any  paints,  canvases } 
You  haven't  touched  your  paints  since  you've  been 
back.  You  might  have  your  drawing  master  here, 
you  might  go  out  painting  with  him.  This  is  just 
the  time  of  year.' 

'I've  given  up  painting.  No,  Harold,  thank  you 
all  the  same.  I  know  I'm  dull,  cheerless ;  you 
mustn't  mind  me,  it  is  only  a  fit  of  the  blues ;  it  will 
wear  off.     One  of  these  days  I  shall  be  all  right.' 

'  But  do  you  mind  my  asking  people  to  the 
house  ? ' 

'Not  if  it  pleases  you.     But  don't  do  so  for  me.' 

Harold  looked  at  his  watch.  'I  must  say  good- 
bye now.      I've  only  just  time  to  catch  the  train.' 

That  same  evening  brother  and  sister  sat  together 
in  the  library ;  neither  had  spoken  for  some  time, 
and,  coming  at  the  end  of  a  long  silence,  Mildred's 
voice  sounded  clear  and  distinct. 


224  CELIBATES. 

'Alfred  Stanby  called  here  to-day.* 

'I  wonder  he  did  not  call  before.'  There  was  a 
note  of  surprise  in  his  voice  which  did  not  quite 
correspond  with  his  words. 

'Did  he  stay  long.?* 

'He  stayed  for  tea.* 

*  Did  you  find  him  changed  ?  It  must  be  five 
years  since  you  met.' 

'He  has  grown  stouter.' 
'What  did  he  talk  about.?' 
'Ordinary  things.     He  was  very  formal* 
'  He  was  very  much  cut  up   when  you  broke  off 
your  engagement.' 

'You  never  approved  of  it.* 

'  No,  but  it  was  not  for  me  that  you  broke  it  off.' 

'No,  it  wasn't  on  account  of  you.' 

The  conversation  paused.     At  last  Harold  said : 

*  Are  you  as  indisposed  as  ever  towards  marriage  ? 
If  Alfred  were  to  propose  again  would  you  have 
him.?' 

'  I  really  don't  know.  Do  you  want  me  to  marry .? 
I'm  not  very  pleasant  company,  I'm  well  aware  of 
that.' 

'You  know  that  I  didn't  mean  that,  Mildred. 
I  don't  want  to  press  you  into  any  marriage.  I've 
always  wished  you  to  do  what  you  like.' 

'And  I  have  done  so.' 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  225 

*  I  still  want  you  to  do  what  you  like.  But  I  can't 
forget  that  if  I  were  to  die  to-morrow  you  would  be 
practically  alone  in  the  world  —  a  few  cousins ' 

'But  what  makes  you  think  of  dying?  You're 
in  as  good  health  as  ever.' 

'I'm  forty-three,  and  father  died  when  he  was 
forty-eight.  He  died  of  heart  disease ;  I  have 
suffered  from  my  heart,  so  it  is  not  probable  that 
I  shall  make  very  old  bones.  If  I  were  to  die, 
you  would  inherit  everything.  What  would  become 
of  this  place  —  of  this  business.-'  Isn't  it  natural 
that  I  should  wish  to  see  you  settled  in  life  ? ' 

'  You  think  that  Alfred  would  be  a  suitable 
match .''     Would  you  like  to  see  me  marry  him  ? ' 

'  There's  nothing  against  him ;  he's  not  very 
well  off.  But  he's  got  on  while  you've  been  away. 
He's  making,  I  should  say  now,  at  least  ^500  a 
year.  That  isn't  much,  but  to  have  increased 
his  income  from  three  to  five  hundred  a  year  in 
five  years  proves  that  he  is  a  steady  man.' 

*No  one  ever  doubted  Alfred's  steadiness.' 

'Mildred,  it  is  time  to  have  done  with  those 
sneers.' 

'  I    suppose   it   is.     I   suppose  what   you    say  is 
right.     I've   been  from  pillar  to  post   and   nothing 
has    come    of    it.     Perhaps   I    was    only   fitted    for 
marriage  after  all.' 
Q 


226  CELIBATES. 

'And  for  what  better  purpose  could  a  woman 
be  fitted?' 

*We  won't  discuss  that  subject,'  Mildred  an- 
swered. 'If  I'm  to  marry  any  one,  as  well  Alfred 
as  another.' 

It  was  the  deeper  question  that  perplexed : 
Could  she  accept  marriage  at  all  ?  And  in  despair 
she  decided  that  things  must  take  their  chance. 
If  she  couldn't  marry  when  it  came  to  the  point, 
why,  she  couldn't ;  if  she  married  and  found 
marriage  impossible,  they  would  have  to  separate. 
The  experience  might  be  an  unpleasant  one,  but 
it  could  not  be  more  unpleasant  than  her  present 
life  which  was  driving  her  to  suicide.  Marriage 
seemed  a  thing  that  every  one  must  get  through ; 
one  of  the  penalties  of  existence.  Why  it  should 
be  so  she  couldn't  think !  but  it  was  so.  Marriage 
was  supposed  to  be  for  ever,  but  nothing  was  for 
ever.  Even  if  she  did  marry,  she  felt  that  it 
would  not  be  for  ever.  No ;  it  would  not  be  for 
ever.  Further  into  the  future  she  could  not  see, 
nor  did  she  care  to  look.  She  remembered  that 
she  was  not  acting  fairly  towards  Alfred.  But 
instead  of  considering  that  question,  she  repelled 
it.  She  had  suffered  enough,  suffering  had  made 
her  what  she  was ;  she  must  now  think  of  herself. 
She    must  get   out   of   her  present   life;   marriage 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  227 

might  be  worse,  but  it  would  be  a  change,  and 
change  she  must  have.  Things  must  take  their 
course,  she  did  not  know  whether  she  would  accept 
or  refuse :  but  she  was  sure  she  would  like  him 
to  propose.  He  had  loved  her,  and,  as  he  had 
not  married,  it  was  probable  that  he  still  loved 
her,  anyway  she  would  like  to  find  out. 

He  interested  her,  yes,  in  a  way,  for  she  no 
longer  understood  him.  Five  years  are  a  long 
while ;  he  was  practically  a  new  man  ;  and  she 
wondered  if  he  had  changed  as  much  as  she. 
Perhaps  he  hated  her.  Perhaps  he  had  forgiven 
her.  Perhaps  she  was  indifferent  to  him.  Perhaps 
his  conventional  politeness  was  the  real  man. 
Perhaps  no  real  man  existed  underneath  it.  In 
that  case  the  pursuit  would  not  prove  very  excit- 
ing. But  she  did  not  think  that  this  was  so. 
She  remembered  certain  traits  of  character,  certain 
looks. 

Thinking  of  Alfred  carried  her  back  to  the 
first  years  of  her  girlhood.  She  was  only  eighteen 
when  she  first  met  him.  He  was  the  first  man 
who  had  kissed  her,  and  she  had  lain  awake  think- 
ing of  something  which  his  sister  Edith  had  told 
her.  Edith  knew  that  she  did  not  love  a  man  to 
whom  she  was  engaged,  because  when  he  kissed 
her  his  kiss  did  not  thrill  her.     Alfred's  kiss  had 


228  CELIBATES. 

not  thrilled,  so  far  as  Mildred  could  make  out 
But  she  had  admired  his  frock  coat,  his  gloves, 
and  his  general  bearing  had  seemed  to  her  most 
gentlemanly,  not  to  say  distinguished.  She  had 
felt  that  she  would  never  feel  ashamed  of  him ; 
his  appearance  had  flattered  her  girlish  vanity, 
and  for  nearly  two  years  they  had  been  engaged. 
She  remembered  that  she  had  not  discovered  any 
new  attractions  about  him ;  he  had  always  re- 
mained at  the  frock  coat  and  the  gloves  stage ; 
she  remembered  that  she  had,  on  more  than  one 
occasion,  wearied  of  his  society  and  suspected  that 
there  was  little  in  him.  They  had  nevertheless 
very  nearly  been  married  when  she  was  twenty. 
But  Harold  had  always  been  opposed  to  the 
match,  and  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she  had 
never  cared  much  about  it.  If  she  had,  she  would 
have  married  him  then  .  .  . 

The  first  stirring  influence  that  had  entered  into 
her  life  was  Mrs.  Fargus.  She  could  trace  every- 
thing back  to  Mrs.  Fargus.  Mrs.  Fargus  had 
awakened  all  that  lay  dormant  in  her  desire  of  self- 
realisation,  and,  although  Mrs.  Fargus  had  not 
directly  impugned  marriage,  she  had  said  enough  to 
make  her  understand  that  it  were  possible  to  rebel 
against  marriage  ;  and  that  in  proclaiming  antipathy 
to  marriage  she  would  win  admiration,  and  would 
in  a  measure  distinguish  herself. 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  '  229 

And,  with  the  first  discovery  of  a  peculiarity  of 
temperament,  Mildred  had  grown  intensely  inter- 
ested in  herself ;  she  remembered  how  day  by  day 
she  had  made  new  discoveries  in  herself,  how  she 
had  wondered  at  this  being  which  was  she.  Her 
faults  at  all  times  had  especially  interested  her. 
She  remembered  how  frightened,  how  delighted  she 
had  been,  when  she  discovered  that  she  was  a  cruel 
woman.  She  had  not  suspected  this  till  the  day  she 
sat  in  the  garden  listening  to  Alfred's  reproaches 
and  expostulations.  She  had  thrilled  at  the  thought 
that  she  could  make  a  man  so  unhappy.  His  grief 
was  wonderful  to  witness,  and  involuntary  remarks 
had  escaped  her  admirably  designed  to  draw  it  forth, 
to  exhibit  it ;  she  was  sorry  for  him,  but  in  the  back- 
ground of  her  mind  she  could  not  help  rejoicing  ; 
the  instinct  of  cruelty  would  not  be  wholly  repressed. 
But  once  the  interview  over,  she  had  thought  very 
little  of  him  ;  there  was  little  in  his  nature  to  attract 
hers ;  nothing  beyond  the  mere  antagonism  of  op- 
posites  —  he  was  straightforward  and  gross,  she  was 
complex  and  artificial. 

But,  in  her  relations  with  Ralph,  there  had  been 
sympathy  and  affection,  she  had  felt  sorry  that  she 
would  not  marry  him,  and  his  death  had  come  as  a 
painful  shock  which  had  affected  her  life.  She  had 
not  been  able  to  grieve  for  him  as  violently  as  she 


230  CELIBATES. 

would  have  liked,  but  she  retained  a  very  tender 
memory.  Tears  sometimes  rose  to  her  eyes  when 
she  thought  of  him,  and  that  past  in  the  National 
Gallery  and  in  St,  James'  Park.  For  the  sentiment 
of  love,  if  not  its  realisation  was  largely  appreciated 
by  Mildred,  and  that  a  man  should  choose  and,  failing 
to  obtain,  should  reject  all  else  as  inadequate,  was 
singularly  attractive  to  her.  All  the  tenderness  that 
her  nature  was  capable  of  had  vented  itself  in  Ralph ; 
he  had  been  so  good  to  her,  so  kind,  so  unquestion- 
ing ;  the  time  they  had  spent  together  had  been 
peaceful,  and  full  of  gentle  inspiration ;  she  remem- 
bered and  thought  of  him  differently  from  the  others. 
His  love  had  gratified  her  vanity,  but  not  grossly  as 
Alfred's  had  done,  there  had  been  no  feeling  of 
cruelty ;  she  would  have  been  glad  to  have  made  him 
happy;  she  would  have  done  so  if  she  had  been 
able. 

But  at  that  time  all  her  energy,  will,  and  all  her 
desire  of  personal  fame  were  in  art.  She  had  striven 
on  the  thorny  and  rocky  hill  till  she  could  climb  no 
more,  and  then  had  crept  away  to  Barbizon  anxious 
to  accept  life  unconditionally.  But  life,  even  as  art, 
had  been  refused  to  her.  She  could  not  live  as 
others  lived  ;  she  could  only  enjoy  in  her  way,  and 
her  way  was  not  that  of  mankind.  She  had  liked 
Morton  very  dearly.     She  had  felt  pleasure  in  his 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  23 1 

conversation,  in  himself,  and,  moved  by  the  warmth 
of  the  night,  she  had  been  drawn  to  his  side,  and,  as 
they  strayed  along  the  grass  grown  paths  and  had 
stooped  under  the  mysterious  darkness  of  the  trees, 
she  had  taken  his  arm  affectionately,  conscious  of 
the  effect  upon  him,  but  still  taking  it  from  personal 
choice  ;  and,  as  they  leaned  over  the  broken  paling  at 
the  bottom  of  the  garden  in  front  of  the  stars,  it  had 
pleased  her  that  he  should  put  his  arm  round  her, 
take  her  face  in  his  hand  and  to  kiss  her  lips.  The 
forest,  too,  the  enchantment  of  the  tall  trees,  and  the 
enigma  of  the  moonlight  falling  through  the  branches 
and  lighting  up  the  banks  over  which  he  helped  her, 
had  wrought  upon  her  imagination,  upon  her  nerves, 
and  there  had  been  moments  when  she  had  thought 
that  she  could  love  him  as  other  women  loved. 

Perhaps  she  ought  to  have  told  no  one.  He  was 
not  altogether  to  blame,  and  her  eyes  softened  as 
she  dwelt  on  the  recollection.  ...  It  was  not  his 
fault,  nor  her  fault.  She  could  not  control  her 
moods,  and  she  was  not  responsible  for  what  she 
said  and  did  when  they  were  upon  her.  She  had 
felt  that  she  must  leave  Barbizon,  she  had  felt  that 
she  hated  artists  and  studios,  and  a  force,  which  she 
could  not  resist,  had  drawn  her  towards  the  Dela- 
cours.  She  remembered  it  all  very  well.  She  did 
not  blame  Morton.     She  had  acted  wrongly,  but  it 


232  CELIBATES. 

was  fate.  Looking  back  she  could  honestly  say  that 
it  was  impossible  for  her  to  have  acted  otherwise. 
Those  moods  of  hers ! 

Delacour  she  had  never  cared  about.  He  had 
made  love  to  her,  but  she  had  done  nothing  wrong. 
Madame  Delacour  knew  that  she  had  done  nothing 
wrong,  and  Mildred  hated  her  for  the  accusation. 
*  She  accused  me  of  kissing  her  husband,'  Mildred 
reflected.  Mildred  often  liked  to  look  the  truth  in 
the  face,  but,  in  this  instance,  the  truth  was  unpleas- 
ant to  look  in  the  face ;  she  shrank  from  it,  and 
excused  herself.  She  was  at  that  time  without  hope, 
everything  had  gone  wrong  with  her.  She  had  to 
have  a  friend.  .  .  .  Moreover,  she  had  resolved  to 
break  off  with  M.  Delacour  as  soon  as  the  Panama 
scandal  had  passed.  But,  owing  to  the  accusations 
of  that  odious  woman,  her  life  had  suddenly  fallen 
to  pieces.  In  two  more  years  she  would  have  mas- 
tered the  French  language,  and  might  have  won 
some  place  for  herself  in  literature.  .  .  .  But  in 
English  she  could  do  nothing.  She  hated  the  lan- 
guage. It  did  not  suit  her.  No,  there  was  nothing 
for  her  now  to  do  but  to  live  at  Sutton  and  look 
after  her  brother's  house  or  marry.  .  .  .  After  all 
her  striving  she  found  herself  back  at  the  point 
whence  she  had  started ;  she  had  accomplished  the 
circle  of  life,  or  nearly  so.     To  fulfil  the  circle  she 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  233 

had  to  marry.  There  was  nothing  in  life  except  a 
little  fruitless  striving,  and  then  marriage.  If  she 
did  not  accept  marriage,  what  should  she  do  ?  She 
was  tired  asking  herself  that  question ;  so  she  put  it 
aside,  and  applied  herself  day  by  day  with  greater 
diligence  to  the  conquest  of  Alfred. 

Their  first  letters  were  quite  formal.  But  one 
day  Alfred  was  surprised  by  a  letter  beginning  My 
dear  Mr.  Stanby.  He  asked  himself  if  the  my  was 
intentional  or  accidental,  and,  after  some  reflection, 
began  his  letter  *My  dear  Miss  Lawson.'  A  fort- 
night later  he  received  a  letter  without  the  first  line 
of  usual  address.  This  seemed  to  him  significant, 
and  he  too  omitted  the  first  line,  and  in  signing 
changed  the  yours  truly  to  yours  always.  They 
wrote  to  each  other  two  or  three  times  a  week,  and 
Alfred  had  frequent  appointments  with  Mildred. 
She  wished  to  consult  him  about  various  things,  and 
made  various  pretexts  for  asking  him  to  come  and 
see  her.  Her  flirtations  had  hitherto  been  con- 
ducted by  the  aid  of  books  and  pictures.  But,  in 
Alfred's  case,  books  and  pictures  were  not  possible 
pretexts  ;  he  knew  nothing  about  either,  he  played 
several  instruments  but  could  not  talk  music,  and 
her  attempts  to  play  his  accompaniments  seemed  to 
estrange  them.  Gardening  and  tennis  she  had  to 
fall  back  upon,  and  tennis  meant  the  invitation  of 


234  CELIBATES. 

the  young  men  and  women  of  the  neighbourhood, 
and  this  did  not  coincide  with  Mildreds  ideas ;  her 
flirtations  were  severely  private,  she  was  not  herself 
in  the  presence  of  many  people.  But  she  had  to 
make  the  best  of  things ;  and  having  set  the  young 
people  of  the  neighbourhood  playing  their  game  she 
walked  about  the  grounds  with  Alfred. 

She  had  tried  on  several  occasions  to  allude  to 
the  past,  the  slightest  allusion  would  precipitate  a 
conclusion,  and  destroy  the  sentiment  of  distrust 
that  separated  and  rendered  their  companionship 
uncomfortable.  But  Alfred  persistently  avoided  all 
allusion  to  the  past.  He  was  very  attentive,  and 
clearly  preferred  her  to  other  girls,  but  their  con- 
versation was  strictly  formal,  and  Mildred  could  not 
account  for  this  discrepancy.  If  he  cared  for  her 
no  longer,  why  did  he  pay  her  so  much  attention. 
If  he  did  care  for  her,  why  did  he  not  tell  her  so. 
The  wall  of  formality  with  which  he  opposed  her 
puzzled  and  irritated  her.  Often  she  thought  it 
would  be  well  to  abandon  the  adventure,  but  at 
least,  in  her  flirtations,  she  had  not  failed.  She 
recalled  the  number  of  her  victims,  the  young  poets 
who  used  to  come  to  see  Helene ;  none  had  ever 
hesitated  between  them.  She  had  only  to  hold  up 
her  little  finger  to  get  any  one  of  them  away  from 
Helene.     It  was  strange  that  Alfred  remained  cold ; 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  235 

she  knew  he  was  not  cold ;  she  remembered  the 
storm  of  their  interview  when  she  broke  off  her 
engagement  five  years  ago. 

He  had  grown  stouter,  he  still  wore  a  long  black 
frock  coat,  and  now  looked  like  a  policeman.  His 
commonplace  good  looks  had  changed  to  a  ponder- 
ous regularity  of  feature.  But  Alfred  was  instinc- 
tively a  gentleman,  and  he  made  no  allusion  to  her 
painting  that  might  lead  Mildred  to  suppose  that  he 
thought  that  she  had  failed.  That  a  young  girl  like 
Mildred  should  have  chosen  to  live  with  such  people 
as  the  Delacours,  worse  still,  to  have  wasted  a  large 
part  of  her  fortune  in  their  shocking  paper,  was  a 
matter  which  he  avoided  as  carefully  as  she  would 
the  Divorce  Court,  in  the  presence  of  a  man  whose 
wife  has  just  left  him.  As  for  marrying  Mildred 
he  didn't  know  what  to  think.  She  was  a  pretty 
woman,  and  for  him  something  of  the  old  charm  still 
lingered.  But  his  practical  mind  saw  the  danger  of 
taking  so  flighty  a  minded  person  into  the  respecta- 
bility of  a  British  home.  He  had  loved  her,  he  still 
liked  her,  he  didn't  mind  admitting  that,  but  he  was 
no  longer  a  fool  about  her.  She  had  spent  her 
money,  nearly  all  of  it,  and  he  couldn't  afford  to 
marry  a  fortuneless  girl.  She  would  be  an  heiress 
if  her  brother  died,  and  he  might  die  at  any  moment, 
he  suffered  from  heart  disease.     Alfred  liked  Harold, 


236  CELIBATES. 

and  did  not  wish  his  death,  but  if  Harold  did  go  off 
suddenly  Alfred  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  not 
ask  Mildred  to  marry  him.  He  liked  her  as  well 
as  any  other  girl ;  he  thought  he  would  make  her  a 
good  husband,  he  would  be  able  to  manage  her 
better  than  any  other  man,  he  was  sure  of  that, 
because  he  understood  her.  She  was  a  queer  one : 
but  he  thought  they'd  get  along  all  right.  But  all 
this  was  in  the  future,  so  long  as  Harold  lived  he'd 
keep  on  just  as  he  was ;  if  she  met  a  man  she  liked 
better  she  could  have  him.  He  had  got  on  very 
well  without  her  for  the  last  five  years ;  there  was 
no  hurry,  he  could  afford  to  wait  if  she  couldn't. 
She  had  thrown  him  over  to  go  to  Paris  to  paint ; 
she  had  come  back  a  failure,  and  now  she  wanted 
him  to  marry,  because  it  suited  her  convenience. 
She  could  wait. 

Sometimes  his  mood  was  gentler.  '  If  she  did 
throw  me  over  it  wasn't  for  any  other  fellow,  she 
always  had  odd  ideas.  It  was  because  she  was 
clever.  I  never  cared  for  any  girl  as  I  did  for 
her.  By  Jove,  I  think  I'd  sooner  marry  her  than  any 
one  else.  I  wish  she  hadn't  spent  all  her  money  on 
that  damned  socialistic  paper.' 

At  the  thought  of  the  paper  Alfred's  face  clouded, 
and  he  remembered  that  Harold  had  gone  into  the 
house  to  get   him  a  cigar :  he  was   longing  for  a 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  237 

smoke.  Mildred  was  standing  at  a  little  distance 
talking  to  a  group  of  players  who  had  just  finished  a 
set,  and  he  was  about  to  ask  her  where  her  brother 
was,  when  he  thought  he  would  go  and  look  for 
Harold  himself. 

He  passed  up  the  lawn  and  entered  the  house  by 
one  of  the  bow  windows.  He  examined  the  pictures 
in  the  drawing-room,  as  do  those  to  whom  artistic 
work  conveys  no  sense  of  merit.  'He  paid  three 
hundred  for  that  at  the  Academy,  I  hear.  It  does 
not  look  much  —  a  woman  standing  by  a  tree.  I 
suppose  it  is  very  good ;  it  —  must  be  good  ;  but  I 
think  one  might  find  a  better  way  of  spending  three 
hundred  pounds.  And  that  landscape  cost  a  hundred 
and  fifty  —  a  lake  and  a  few  rushes,  not  a  figure  in  it. 
I  should  have  made  the  fellow  put  some  figures  in  it, 

—  before  I  paid  all  that  money.  The  frames  are 
very  handsome,  I  wonder  where  that  fellow  has  got 
to.  .  .  .  He  must  be  worth  six  thousand  a  year, 
people  say  eight,  but  I  always  make  a  rule  to  deduct. 
If  he  has  six  thousand  a  year,  he  ought  surely  to  give 
his  only  sister  ten  thousand  pounds.     But  that  cigar 

—  I  am  dying  for  a  smoke.  Where  is  he }  What's 
he  doing  all  this  while  ?     I'll  try  the  smoking-room.' 

The  door  was  open,  and  the  first  thing  Alfred  saw 
was  Harold  sitting  in  a  strange  crumpled-up  attitude 
on  the  sofa.     He  sat  with  his  back  to  the  light,  and 


238  CELIBATES. 

the  room  was  lit  only  by  one  window.  But,  even 
so,  Alfred  could  distinguish  the  strange  pallor. 
'  Harold  ! '  he  called,  — '  Harold  ! '  Receiving  no  an- 
swer, he  stepped  forward  hastily  and  took  the  dead 
man  by  the  shoulders.  '  Harold  !  *  The  cold  of  the 
dead  hand  answered  him,  and  Alfred  said,  '  He's 
dead.'  .  .  .  Then  afraid  of  mistake,  he  shook  the 
corpse  and  looked  into  the  glassy  eyes  and  the  wide 
open  mouth.  '  By  Jove  !  He  is  dead,  there  can  be 
no  doubt.  Heart  disease.  He  must  have  fallen  just 
as  he  was  opening  the  cigar-box.  He  was  alive  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  ago.  Perhaps  he's  not  dead 
a  couple  of  minutes.  Dead  a  couple  of  minutes  or 
dead  a  thousand  years,  it  is  all  the  same.  I  must 
call  some  one.  I  had  better  ring.'  He  laid  his  hand 
on  the  bell,  and  then  paused. 

*  I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  She  is  an  heiress  now 
—  she  is,  there's  no  doubt.  No  one  knows  except 
me.  No  one  saw  me  enter  the  house  —  no  one ;  I 
might  slip  out  and  propose  to  her.  I  know  she  will 
accept  me.  If  I  don't  propose  now  my  chance  will 
be  lost,  perhaps  for  ever.  You  can't  propose  to  a 
girl  immediately  after  her  brother's  death,  particu- 
larly if  his  death  makes  her  an  heiress.  Then,  after 
the  funeral,  she  may  go  away.  She  will  probably  go 
to  London.  I  wouldn't  give  two  pence  for  my 
chance.     New  influences !     Besides,  a  girl  with  six 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  239 

thousand  a  year  sees  things  in  a  very  different  light 
to  a  girl  who  has  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing,  even 
if  it  is  the  same  girl.  I  shall  lose  her  if  I  don't 
propose  now.  By  Jove !  What  a  chance !  If  I 
could  only  get  out  of  this  room  without  being  seen  ! 
Hateful  room!  Curious  place  to  choose  to  die  in. 
Appropriate  too  —  dark,  gloomy,  like  a  grave.  I 
won't  have  it  as  a  smoking-room.  I'll  put  the  smok- 
ing-room somewhere  else.  I  wish  that  butler  would 
stop  moving  about  and  get  back  to  his  pantry.  Gad, 
supposing  he  were  to  catch  me  !  I  might  be  had  up 
for  murder.  Awful !  I  had  better  ring  the  bell.  If 
I  do,  I  shall  lose  six  thousand  a  year.  A  terrible 
game  to  play ;  but  it  is  worth  it.  Here  comes  the 
butler.' 

Alfred  slipped  behind  the  door  and  the  servant 
passed  up  the  passage  without  entering  the  room. 

*  By  heavens,  what  a  fool  I  am  !  What  have  I 
done  ?  If  I  had  been  caught  behind  that  door  it 
would  have  gone  hard  with  me.  There  would  have 
been  nothing  for  it  but  to  have  told  the  truth ;  that 
having  accidentally  found  the  brother  dead,  I  was 
anxious  to  turn  the  discovery  to  account  by  pro- 
posing to  the  sister.  I  daresay  I  would  be  believed ; 
improbable  that  I  had  murdered  him.  How  still  he 
does  lie !  Suppose  he  were  only  shamming.  Oh, 
he  is  dead  enough.     I  wish  I  were  out  of  this  room. 


240  CELIBATES. 

Everything  seems  quiet  now.  I  mustn't  peep ;  I  must 
walk  boldly  out,  and  take  my  chance.  Not  a  sound.* 
Alfred  walked  into  the  wide  passage.  He  avoided 
the  boarded  places,  selected  the  rugs  and  carpets  to 
walk  on,  and  so  made  his  way  into  the  drawing-room, 
and  hence  on  to  the  lawn.  Then  he  slipped  down 
a  secluded  path,  and  returned  to  the  tennis  players 
from  a  different  side. 

*  Where  have  you  been  } ' 

*  I  went  for  a  stroll  round  the  grounds.  I  thought 
you  would  not  like  my  cigar,  that  was  all.' 

'Did  Harold  give  you  a  cigar .?' 

*  No,  I  have  not  seen  him.' 

'Let's  go  into  the  smoking-room  and  get  one.' 

*  No,  thank  you,  I  really  don't  care  to  smoke.  I'd 
sooner  talk  to  you.' 

'But  you  can  do  both.' 

Alfred  did  not  reply,  and  they  walked  down  the 
pathway  in  silence.  '  Good  Heavens  ! '  he  thought, 
'  that  cigar!  If  she  insists  on  going  to  the  smoking- 
room  !  I  must  say  something,  or  she'll  want  to  go 
and  fetch  a  cigar.  But  I  can't  think  of  anything. 
How  difficult  it  is  to  keep  one's  wits  about  one  after 
what  has  happened.' 

'Do  let  me  fetch  you  a  cigar.* 

'No,  I  assure  you.  Miss  Lawson,  that  I  do  not 
want  to  smoke.     Let's  play  tennis,' 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  24 1 

'Would  you  like  to?' 

'No,  I  don't  think  I  should.  I've  no  racquet, 
come  for  a  walk  instead.* 

'I'll  lend  you  my  racquet.  You  said  you'd  like 
to  play  with  me.' 

*  So  I  should  another  time ;  but  now  come  and 
walk  round  the  garden  with  me.' 

*  I  am  so  sorry  I  can't ;  I  have  promised  to  play 
in  this  set ;  it  will  look  so  rude  if  I  leave  my  guests.' 

'  Never  mind  being  rude  ;  it  won't  matter  for  once. 
Do  this  for  me.' 

Mildred  looked  up  wistfully ;  then  she  said : 

'  Ethel  and  Mary,  do  you  play  Mr.  Bates  and  Miss 
Shield.  I  will  play  in  the  next  set ;  I  am  a  little 
tired.' 

The  girls  looked  round  knowingly,  and  Mildred 
and  Alfred  Stanby  walked  towards  the  conserv- 
atories. 


XXL 

Mildred  sat  in  the  long  drawing-room  writing. 
Not  at  the  large  writing-table  in  front  of  the  win- 
dow, but  at  an  old  English  writing-desk,  which  had 
been  moved  from  the  corner  where  it  had  stood  for 
generations.  She  bent  over  the  little  table.  The 
paper-shaded  lamp  shed  a  soft  and  mellow  light  upon 
her  vaporous  hair,  whitening  the  square  white  hands, 
till  they  seemed  to  be  part  of  the  writing  paper. 

Once  or  twice  she  stopped  writing  and  dashed 
tears  from  her  eyes  with  a  quick  and  passionate 
gesture;  and  amid  the  rich  shadows  and  the  lines 
of  light  floating  up  the  tall  red  curtains,  the  soft 
Carlo  Dolce-like  picture  of  the  weary  and  weeping 
girl  was  impressive  and  beautiful. 

The  marble  clock  at  length  struck  twelve  short 
tingling  sounds.  Mildred  closed  the  blotting-book. 
Then  she  closed  the  ink-stand,  and  went  up  the 
high  staircase  to  her  room. 

A  sensation  of  chilliness,  of  loneliness  was  about 
her,  and  when  she  came  to  her  door  she  entered 
her  room  abruptly,  as  if  she  feared  the  dead  man. 

242 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  243 

And,  standing  in  the  middle  of  her  room  watching 
the  yellow  flame  of  the  candle,  she  thought  of  him. 
She  could  see  him  pale  and  stark,  covered  by  a 
sheet,  the  watchers  on  either  side.  She  would  like 
to  go  to  him,  but  she  feared  the  lonely  passage. 
And  she  sat  watching  the  bright  sky ;  and,  without 
belief  or  even  hope,  she  wondered  if  Harold's  spirit 
were  far  beyond  those  stars  sitting  with  God  in  some 
auroral  heaven  amid  aureoled  saints  and  choirs  of 
seraphim.  But  this  dream  did  not  detain  her 
thoughts.  They  turned  into  remembrances  of  a 
kind-hearted  city  man  who  went  to  town  every  day 
by  the  ten  minutes  past  nine  train,  who  had  taken 
the  world  as  he  found  it,  and  who,  unlike  her,  had 
never  sought  to  be  what  he  was  not.  Then  her 
thoughts  moved  away  from  herself,  and  she  feared 
that  she  had  been  a  great  trial  to  him.  But  regrets 
were  vain,  there  was  no  use  regretting ;  he  was 
gone  —  she  would  hear  no  more  of  the  ten  minutes 
past  nine.  He  would  go  to  the  city  no  more ;  and 
in  a  few  years  he  would  be  forgotten  by  every  one 
but  her.  How  unutterably  sad,  how  unspeakably 
sad,  how  unthinkingly  sad  it  all  seemed,  and,  oh,  how 
commonplace.  In  a  few  years  she,  too,  would  be 
forgotten  ;  in  a  few  years  they  would  lie  in  the  same 
ground  forgotten ;  it  would  be  the  same  as  if  they 
had  not  lived  at  all.  ...     How  sad,  how  infinitely 


244  CELIBATES. 

sad,  how  unthinkingly  sad,  and  yet  how  common- 
place. 

But  what  would  happen  in  the  few  years  that 
would  intervene  before  she  joined  him  in  the  earth  ! 
What  ?  She  had  four  thousand  a  year  to  dispose 
of  as  she  pleased,  to  do  with  as  she  liked,  but  this 
fortune  meant  nothing  to  her.  She  had  always  had 
as  much  money  as  she  had  wanted.  His  purse  had 
always  been  hers.  Money  did  not  bring  happiness, 
at  least  it  had  not  brought  her  happiness.  And 
less  now  than  ever  would  it  bring  her  happiness, 
for  she  desired  nothing ;  she  had  lived  her  life, 
there  was  nothing  for  her  to  do,  she  had  tried  and 
failed.  She  had  tried  everything,  except  marriage. 
Should  she  try  that  ?  She  had  promised  Alfred 
that  she  would  marry  him.  He  had  proposed  to 
her  that  afternoon.  One  man  dying,  another  pro- 
posing to  marry.  That  was  life.  Every  day  the 
same  situation.  At  this  very  moment,  the  same, 
and  the  same  will  continue  till  the  end  of  time. 

What  is  it  that  forces  us  to  live  ?  There  is  noth- 
ing to  live  for  except  trouble  and  misery,  and  yet 
we  must  live.  What  forces  us  to  live?  What 
makes  us  live  ?  Enigma.  Nature,  whatever  that 
may  be,  forces  us  to  live,  wills  that  we  should  live. 
'And  I,  too,  like  millions  of  others  must  live.  But 
how  am  I  to  live  ?     How  am  I  to  fill  my  life  ?     If 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  245 

we  live  we  must  find  something  to  live  for.  Take 
a  studio  and  paint  bad  pictures?  I  couldn't.  Go 
back  to  Paris  and  start  a  salon }     I  wonder ! ' 

Then  the  desire  to  weep  overcame  her,  and,  so 
as  to  be  able  to  surrender  herself  wholly  to  grief 
and  tears,  she  took  off  her  gown  and  released  her- 
self of  her  stays.  She  put  on  an  old  wrapper  and 
threw  herself  upon  the  floor.  She  threw  herself 
over  to  this  side  and  that ;  when  she  got  to  her 
feet  her  pocket-handkerchief  was  soaked,  and  she 
stood  perplexed,  and  a  little  ashamed  of  this  display 
of  grief.  For  she  was  quite  conscious  of  its  seem- 
ing artificiality.  Yet  it  was  all  quite  real  to  her, 
only  not  quite  as  real  as  she  would  have  had  it  be. 
She  had  wept  for  herself  and  not  for  him  !  But 
no,  it  was  not  so ;  she  had  wept  for  them  both. 
And  she  had  taken  off  her  gown,  not  because  she 
was  afraid  of  spoiling  it,  no  such  thought  had 
crossed  her  brain;  she  did  not  care  if  she  spoilt 
her  dress  or  fifty  dresses  like  it;  no,  it  was  not  on 
account  of  the  dress,  but  because  she  felt  that  she 
could  find  a  fuller  expression  of  grief  in  a  loose 
wrapper  than  in  a  tight  dress.  That  was  the  truth, 
she  could  not  help  things  if  they  did  seem  a  little 
incongruous.  It  was  not  her  fault ;  she  was  quite 
sincere,  though  her  grief  to  a  third  person  might 
seem  a  little  artificial.      It  was  impossible  to  regret 


246  CELIBATES, 

her  brother  more  than  she  did.  She  would  never 
forget  him,  no,  not  if  they  buried  him  ever  so  deep. 
She  had  been  his  little  sister  a  long  while ;  they 
had  been  children  together.  Since  father  and 
mother  died  they  had  been  alone  in  the  world. 
They  had  not  understood  each  other  very  well ; 
they  were  very  different,  but  that  had  not  pre- 
vented them  loving  each  other  very  dearly.  She 
did  not  know  until  this  evening  how  dearly  she 
loved  him. 

She  sat  down  by  the  window,  took  a  pensive 
attitude,  and  abandoned  herself  to  the  considera- 
tion of  the  pitifulness  of  life.  She  could  see  her 
life  from  end  to  end.  Her  father  had  died  when 
she  was  quite  a  child,  but  she  preserved  a  distinct 
impression  of  his  death.  She  and  her  mother  had 
come  to  pray  by  the  bedside  for  a  last  time.  The 
face  of  the  corpse  was  covered  with  a  handkerchief, 
and  the  nurse  had  warned  her  mother  not  to  remove 
the  handkerchief.  But,  in  a  paroxysm  of  grief,  her 
mother  had  snatched  the  handkerchief  away,  and 
Mildred  had  been  shocked  by  the  altered  face. 
Though  she  had  hidden  her  face  in  her  hands,  the 
dead  man's  face  had  looked  through,  and  she  had 
felt  nothing  but  disgust.  Her  mother's  illness  had 
been  protracted,  she  and  Harold  had  known  that 
she  was  going  to  die  for  at  least  six  months  before, 


MILDRED   LAWSON.  247 

and  they  had  come  to  talk  about  it  as  they  would  of 
the  coming  of  summer  or  the  approach  of  winter. 
They  had  got  so  accustomed  to  the  thought  that  they 
used  to  find  themselves  making  plans  as  to  where 
they  should  go  for  a  change  when  all  was  over.  But, 
when  the  day  came,  Harold's  resignation  broke  down, 
he  was  whelmed  in  grief  for  days  and  weeks.  He 
had  said  to  her : 

'  Mildred,  if  I  had  to  remain  here  all  day,  I  should 
go  mad ;  it  is  my  business  in  the  city  that  keeps  me 
alive.' 

Her  mother  was  a  simple  old  lady,  full  of  love  for 
her  children,  Mildred  had  despised  her  mother,  she 
had  despised  herself  for  her  want  of  love,  and  she 
had  envied  Harold  his  sincere  love  for  his  mother. 
He  had  never,  but  she  had  always  been  aware  of  her 
mother's  absurdity,  and  therefore  could  not  grieve 
quite  so  sincerely  as  Harold.  She  had  known  all 
the  while  that  her  mother's  death  did  not  matter 
much.  Very  soon  she  would  be  forgotten  even  by 
Harold.  He  could  not  always  grieve  for  her.  She 
would  become  a  faint  memory,  occupying  less  and 
less  of  their  thoughts,  exercising  no  perceptible 
influence  upon  their  lives. 

Mildred  had  always  feared  that  she  was  without  a 
heart,  and  the  suspicion  that  she  was  heartless  had 
always  troubled  her.     In  the  course  of  their  love- 


248  CELIBATES. 

quarrels  Morton  had  told  her  that  her  failure  in 
painting  was  owing  to  her  having  no  heart.  She 
had  felt  that  he  was  right.  She  had  not  loved 
painting  for  its  own  sake,  but  for  the  notoriety 
that  she  had  hoped  it  would  have  brought  her.  She 
had  never  been  carried  away.  She  had  tried  to  be  re- 
ligious ;  she  had  changed  her  religion.  But  she  had 
never  believed.  There  was  no  passion  in  her  heart 
for  God,  and  she  had  accepted  literature  just  as  she 
had  accepted  art.  She  had  cared  for  literature  only 
in  proportion  as  literature  helped  her  to  social  suc- 
cess. She  had  had  to  do  something,  literature  was 
something,  the  Delacours  were  something,  their  news- 
paper was  something,  and  the  time  in  which  her  arti- 
cles had  appeared  on  the  front  page  with  her  name  at 
the  bottom  was  the  happiest  in  her  life.  She  was 
some  one  in  the  Delacours'  household,  she  was  the 
pretty  English  girl  who  wrote  French  so  well.  She 
was  some  one,  no  one  knew  exactly  what,  a  mysteri- 
ous something,  a  thing  apart,  a  thing  in  itself,  and 
for  which  there  was  no  match.  She  remembered 
the  thrill  of  pleasure  she  had  felt  when  some  one 
said: 

''Je  suis  sHr  Mademoiselle,  gtiil  n'a  pas  tine  Fran- 
gats  e  qui  occupe  la  mime  position  a  Londres,  que 
vous  occupez  d  Paris!' 

Self  had  been  her  ruin ;  she  had  never  been  able 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  249 

to  get  away  from  self,  no,  not  for  a  single  moment 
of  her  life.  All  her  love  stories  had  been  ruined  and 
disfigured  by  self-assertion,  not  a  great  unconscious 
self,  in  other  words  an  instinct,  but  an  extremely 
conscious,  irritable,  mean,  and  unworthy  self.  She 
knew  it  all,  she  was  not  deceived.  She  could  no 
more  cheat  herself  than  she  could  change  herself; 
that  wretched  self  was  as  present  in  her  at  this 
moment  as  it  had  ever  been;  she  was  as  much  a 
slave  to  herself  as  she  had  ever  been,  and  knowl- 
edge of  her  fault  helped  her  nothing  in  its  correc- 
tion. She  could  not  change  herself,  she  would  have 
to  bear  the  burden  of  herself  to  the  end.  Even  now, 
when  she  ought  to  be  absorbed  in  grief  for  her 
brother's  death  she  was  thinking  of  herself,  of  how 
she  should  live,  for  live  she  must ;  she  did  not  know 
why,  she  did  not  know  how.  She  had  tried  every- 
thing and  failed,  and  marriage  stared  her  in  the  face 
as  the  only  solution  of  the  difficulty  of  her  life. 
She  had  promised  Alfred  Stanby  to  marry  him  that 
afternoon.  Should  she  keep  that  promise  ?  Could 
she  keep  that  promise.'  ...  A  thought  fell  into 
her  mind.  Did  Alfred  know  of  her  brother's  death 
when  he  proposed  to  her  ?  She  had  heard  something 
about  a  cigar ;  Harold  had  gone  to  the  house  to  fetch 
one.  A  few  minutes  after  she  had  seen  Alfred  walk- 
ing towards  the  house.      Had  he  gone  to  the  sraok- 


250  CELIBATES. 

ing-room  .  .  .  found  Harold  dead  on   the  sofa  and 
come  and  proposed  to  her? 

'  It  is  my  money  and  not  myself  that  has  tempted 
him  back/  she  cried,  and  she  looked  down  the  long 
line  of  her  lovers.  She  had  given  her  money  to  M. 
Delacour.  .  .  .  But  no,  he  had  loved  her  whatever 
the  others  might  think,  she  knew  that  was  so.  .  ,  . 
She  could  have  had  the  Comte  de  la  Ferri^re,  and 
how  many  others  ?  —  rich  men,  too  —  men  to  whom 
money  was  no  consideration.  But  she  had  come 
back  to  Sutton  to  be  married  for  her  money ;  and  to 
whom?  an  old,  discarded  lover. 


XXII. 

As  she  tossed  to  and  fro,  the  recollections  of  the  day 
turned  in  her  brain,  ticking  loudly;  and  she  could 
see  each  event  as  distinctly  as  the  figures  on  the 
dial  of  a  great  clock. 

She  saw  the  girls  playing  tennis,  and  Alfred 
walking  towards  the  house.  .  .  .  She  did  not  see 
him  enter  the  house,  it  is  true ;  but  she  had  met 
him  coming  from  the  house.  They  had  walked  to 
the  end  of  the  garden,  and  had  sat  down  under  the 
elms  not  very  far  from  the  spot  where  she  had  re- 
jected him  five  years  before. 

His  hesitations  had  amused  her.  At  last  he  had 
taken  her  hand  and  had  asked  her  to  marry  him. 
There  had  been  something  strange  in  his  manner. 
Something  had  struck  her  at  the  time,  but  the  im- 
pression passed  in  the  pride  of  seeing  him  fall  a 
prey  to  her  enchantment. 

But  it  was  her  money  that  he  was  thinking  of  all 
the  while.  .  .  .  She  wondered  if  she  was  accusing 
him  unjustly,  and  this  led  her  into  a  long  analysis 
of    his    character.      'But    all    this    thinking    leads 

251 


252  CELIBATES. 

nowhere,*  she  cried,  throwing  herself  over  in  her 
hot  bed.  'The  mere  probability  that  a  man  should 
marry  me  for  my  money  would  poison  my  whole  life. 
But  I  shall  have  to  marry  some  one.  .  .  .  I'm 
weary  of  my  present  life,  and  marriage  is  the  only 
way  of  changing  it.  I  cannot  live  alone,  I'd  have  to 
take  a  companion ;  that  would  be  odious.  I  am  not 
suited  to  marriage ;  but  from  marriage  there  did  not 
seem  to  be  any  escape.  All  girls  must  marry,  rich 
and  poor  alike ;  there  seems  no  escape,  though  it 
is  impossible  to  say  why.  I  have  tried  all  my  life 
to  find  escape  from  marriage,  and  here  I  am  back  at 
the  same  point.  Everything  comes  back  to  the 
same  point  in  the  end.  But  whom  am  I  to  marry } 
Alfred  ?  No,  I  could  not  marry  a  man  whom  I  sus- 
pected was  marrying  me  for  my  money.  But  how 
is  one  ever  to  know .-'...' 

She  thought  of  Morton,  and  the  remembrance 
of  their  life  at  Barbizon  came  upon  her,  actively  as 
the  odour  of  the  lilies.  He  had  loved  her  for  her- 
self; he  had  only  thought  of  her.  .  .  .  He  had 
always  been  nice,  and  she  didn't  know  why  she  had 
spoken  against  him ;  it  wasn't  her  fault.  .  .  .  Nor 
did  she  know  why  she  had  run  away  from  Barbizon. 
Ah,  those  nights  at  Barbizon !  those  yellow  moons 
shining  upon  the  forest,  upon  the  mist  in  the  fields, 
and   along  the  verge   of  the  forest.     Ah,  how  the 


MILDRED  LAWSON.  253 

scent  of  the  fields  and  the  forest  used  to  fill  their 
rooms  at  night,  sweet  influences,  wonderful  influ- 
ences, which  she  would  never  forget.  .  .  .  This 
present  night  reminded  her  of  the  Barbizon  nights. 
And  as  she  got  out  of  bed  the  sweetness  of  the 
syringa  mingled  with  the  sweetness  of  her  body. 
She  took  a  scarf  from  her  wardrobe  and  wound  it 
about  her,  because  she  feared  a  chill,  and  because 
she  wished  to  look  well  as  she  stood  in  front  of  the 
soft  night,  calling  upon  her  lover. 

'Come,'  she  said.  'I'm  waiting  for  you.  Come, 
oh,  my  lover,  and  you'll  find  me  no  longer  cold. 
I'm  a  Juliet  burning  for  Romeo's  kisses.  My 
lover,  my  husband,  come.  ...  I  have  lived  too 
long  on  the  surface  of  things.  I  want  to  know 
life,  to  drink  of  life  .  ,  .  and  with  you.  Your 
Juliet  awaits  you ;  delay  not,  Romeo ;  come  now, 
this  very  instant,  or  come  not  at  all,  for  to-morrow 
instead  of  living  fire,  you  may  find  dead  ashes.' 

She  held  her  arms  to  the  night,  and  the  scents 
of  night  mingled  with  the  passion  of  her  bosom. 
But  a  wind  rustled  the  leaves  in  the  garden,  and, 
drawing  the  scarf  tightly  about  her,  she  said : 
'  Should  I  have  turned  from  him  if  he  had  come, 
I  wonder  ?  Why  should  the  idea  transport,  and 
the  reality  extinguish .-'  Why  cannot  I  live  in  nat- 
ural  instinct .?   .    .   .     I   can,  I  will.    .   .    .     Morton 


254  CELIBATES. 

shall  come  back,  .  .  .  He  has  not  married  Rose 
Turner;  I  should  have  heard  of  it  if  he  had.  .  .  . 
I've  only  to  hold  up  my  finger,  and  he  will  come 
back.  But  if  I  did  get  him  back,  and  he  did  pro- 
pose, how  do  I  know  that  it  would  not  be  for  my 
money  ^  A  love  once  dead  cannot  be  revived ; 
nothing  ever  happens  twice.' 

She  crept  back  to  her  bed,  cold  and  despondent. 
The  passing  passion  she  had  felt  for  Morton  was 
but  a  passing  sensation  of  the  summer  night,  as 
transient  as  the  snatches  of  perfume  which  the 
night  wind  carried  into  the  room.  Again  she 
cared  for  nothing  in  the  world.  She  did  not 
know  what  was  going  to  become  of  her ;  the  bur- 
den of  life  seemed  so  unbearable ;  she  felt  so 
unhappy.  She  lay  quite  still,  with  her  eyes  wide 
open,  seeing  the  questions  go  round  like  the  hands 
of  a  clock ;  the  very  words  sounded  as  loud  and 
distinct  in  her  brain  as  the  ticking  of  a  clock. 
Her  nerves  were  shattered,  and  life  grew  terribly 
distinct  in  the  insomnia  of  the  hot  summer  night. 
.  .  .  She  threw  herself  over  and  over  in  her  burn- 
ing bed  until  at  last  her  soul  cried  out  of  its  lucid 
misery :  *  Give  me  a  passion  for  God  or  man,  but 
give  me  a  passion.     I  cannot  live  without  one.' 


JOHN   NORTON. 


JOHN    NORTON. 

I. 

Mrs.  Norton  walked  with  her  quiet,  decisive  step 
to  the  window,  and  holding  the  gold-rimmed  glasses 
to  her  eyes,  she  looked  into  the  landscape.  The  day 
was  grimy  with  clouds ;  mist  had  risen,  and  it  hung 
out  of  the  branches  of  the  elms  like  a  grey  veil. 
She  was  a  woman  of  forty-five,  tall,  strongly-built, 
her  figure  setting  to  the  squareness  of  middle  age. 
Her  complexion  was  flushed,  and  her  cold  grey  eyes 
were  close  together  above  a  long  thin  nose.  Her 
fashionably-cut  silk  fitted  perfectly ;  the  skirt  was 
draped  with  grace  and  precision  of  style,  and  the 
glossy  shawl  with  the  long  soft  fringe  fell  gracefully 
over  her  shoulders.  '  Surely,'  she  thought,  '  he  can- 
not have  been  foolish  enough  to  have  walked  over 
the  downs  such  a  day  as  this ; '  then,  raising  her 
glasses  again,  she  looked  out  at  the  smallest  angle 
with  the  wall  of  the  house,  so  that  she  should  get 
sight  of  a  vista  through  which  any  one  coming  from 
Shoreham  would  have  to  pass.  At  that  moment  a 
s  257" 


258  CELIBATES. 

silhouette  appeared  on  the  sullen  sky.  Mrs.  Nor. 
ton  moved  precipitately  from  the  window,  and  rang 
the  bell 

*  James,*  she  said,  *  Mr,  Hare  has  been  going  in  for 
one  of  his  long  walks.  He  is  coming  across  the 
park.  I  am  sure  he  has  walked  over  the  downs ;  if 
so,  he  must  be  wet  through.  Have  a  fire  lighted, 
and  put  out  a  pair  of  slippers  for  him  :  Here  is  the 
key  of  Mr.  Norton's  wardrobe ;  let  Mr.  Hare  have 
what  he  wants.' 

And  having  detached  a  key  from  one  of  the  many 
bunches  which  filled  her  basket,  Mrs.  Norton  went 
herself  to  open  the  door  to  her  visitor.  He  was, 
however,  still  some  distance  away,  and  it  was  not 
until  he  climbed  the  iron  fence  which  separated  the 
park  from  the  garden  grounds  that  the  figure  grew 
into  its  individuality,  into  a  man  of  about  fifty,  about 
the  medium  height,  inclined  to  stoutness.  His  white 
neck-tie  proclaimed  him  a  parson,  and  the  grey  mud 
with  which  his  boots  were  bespattered  told  of  his 
long  walk. 

*  You  are  quite  right,  Lizzie,  you  are  quite  right,' 
he  said ;  *  I  shouldn't  have  done  it,  ,  Had  I  known 
what  a  state  the  roads  were  in,  I  wouldn't  have 
attempted  it.' 

'If  you  don't  know  what  these  roads  are  like  in 
winter  by  this  time,  you  never  will.' 


JOHN  NORTON.  259 

*  I  never  saw  them  in  the  state  they  are  now ;  such 
a  slush  of  chalk  and  clay  was  never  seen.' 

'  What  can  you  expect  after  a  month  of  heavy  rain  ? 
You  are  wringing  wet.' 

'Yes,  I  was  caught  in  a  heavy  shower  as  I  was 
crossing  over  by  Fresh-Combe-bottom.  I  am  cer. 
tainly  not  in  a  fit  state  to  come  into  your  dining^ 
room.' 

*  I  should  think  not,  indeed  !  I  really  believe,  if  I 
were  to  allow  it,  you  would  sit  the  whole  afternoon 
in  your  wet  clothes.  You'll  find  everything  ready 
for  you  in  John's  room.  I'll  give  you  ten  minutes. 
I'll  tell  them  to  bring  up  lunch  in  ten  minutes.  Stay, 
will  you  have  a  glass  of  wine  before  going  upstairs  ? ' 

*I  am  afraid  of  spoiling  your  carpet.' 

'  Yes,  indeed  !  not  one  step  further !  I'll  fetch  it 
for  you.' 

When  the  parson  had  drunk  the  wine,  and  was 
following  the  butler  upstairs,  Mrs.  Norton  returned 
to  the  dining-room  with  the  empty  glass  in  her  hand. 
She  placed  it  on  the  chimney-piece ;  she  stirred  the 
fire,  and  her  thoughts  flowed  pleasantly  as  she  dwelt 
on  the  kindness  of  her  old  friend.  They  had  known 
each  other  since  they  were  children,  and  had  lived 
for  twenty  years  separated  only  by  a  strip  of  down- 
land. 

'He  only  got  my  note  this  morning,'  she  mused. 


26o  CELIBATES. 

*I  wonder  if  he  will  be  able  to  persuade  John  to 
return  home.* 

And  now,  maturing  her  plans  for  getting  her  boy 
back,  she  stood  by  the  black  mantelpiece,  her  head 
leaning  on  her  hand.  She  uttered  an  exclamation 
when  Mr.  Hare  entered. 

'  What,'  she  said,  '  you  haven't  changed  your  things, 
and  I  told  you  you  would  find  a  suit  of  John's  clothes. 
I  must  insist ' 

'My  dear  Lizzie,  no  amount  of  insistence  would 
get  me  into  a  pair  of  John's  trousers.  I  am  thirteen 
stone  and  a  half,  and  he  is  not  much  over  ten.* 

*  Ah  !  I  had  forgotten  ;  but  what  are  you  to  do  ? 
Something  must  be  done ;  you  will  catch  your  death 
of  cold  if  you  remain  in  your  wet  clothes.  .  .  .  You 
are  wringing  wet.' 

*  No,  I  assure  you,  I  am  not.  My  feet  were  a 
little  wet,  but  I  have  changed  my  stockings  and 
shoes.  And  now,  tell  me,  Lizzie,  what  there  is  for 
lunch,'  he  said,  speaking  rapidly  to  silence  Mrs. 
Norton,  who  he  saw  was  going  to  protest  again. 

'  There  is  chicken  and  some  curried  rabbit,  but 
I  am  afraid  you  will  suffer  for  it  if  you  remain  the 
whole  of  the  afternoon  in  those  wet  clothes ;  I  really 
cannot,  I  will  not  allow  it.' 

*  My  dear  Lizzie,  my  dear  Lizzie,'  cried  the  parson, 
laughing  all  over  his  rosy-skinned  and  sandy-whisk- 


JOHN  NORTON.  26 1 

ered  face,  *  I  must  beg  of  you  not  to  excite  yourself. 
Give  me  a  wing  of  that  chicken.  James,  I'll  take 
a  glass  of  sherry  .  .  .  and  while  I  am  eating  you 
shall  explain  the  matter  you  are  minded  to  consult 
me  on,  and  I  will  advise  you  to  the  best  of  my 
power,  and  then  start  on  my  walk  across  the 
hills.' 

'What!  you  mean  to  say  you  are  going  to  walk 
home  ?  .  .  .  We  shall  have  another  downpour  pres- 
ently.' 

*  I  cannot  come  to  much  harm  so  long  as  I  am 
walking,  whereas  if  I  drove  home  in  your  carriage 
I  might  catch  a  chill.  ...  It  is  at  least  ten  miles 
to  Shoreham  by  the  road,  while  across  the  hills  it 
is  not  more  than  six.' 

'  Six !  it  is  eight  if  it  is  a  yard ! ' 

'  Well,  perhaps  it  is ;  but  tell  me,  I  am  curious 
to  hear  what  you  want  to  talk  to  me  about.  .  .  . 
Something  about  John,  is  it  not .-' ' 

*  Of  course  it  is  ;  what  else  have  I  to  think  about } 
what  else  concerns  middle-aged  people  like  you  and 
me  but  our  children.?  Of  course  I  want  to  talk  to 
you  about  John.  Something  must  be  done ;  things 
cannot  go  on  as  they  are.  Why,  it  is  nearly  two 
years  since  he  has  been  home.  Why  does  he 
not  come  and  live  at  his  own  beautiful  place .? 
Why  does  he  not  take  up  his  position  in  the  county  ? 


262  CELIBATES. 

He  is  not  a  magistrate.     Why  does  he  not  marry  ? 
...  he  is  the  last ;  there  is  no  one  to  follow  him.' 

*  Do  you  think  he'll  never  marry } ' 
'I'm  afraid  not.' 

'  Does  he  give  any  reason  ? ' 
'He   says   that   he's   afraid   that  a  woman  might 
prove  a  disturbing  influence  in  his  life.' 

*  And  what  did  you  say  to  that  ? ' 

*  I  told  him  that  he  was  the  last,  and  that  it  was 
his  duty  to  marry.' 

'  I  don't  think  that  women  present  any  attraction 
to  him.  In  a  way  that  is  a  matter  of  congratu- 
lation.' 

*  I  would  much  sooner  he  were  wild,  like  other 
young  men.  Young  men  get  over  those  kind  of 
faults,  but  he'll  never  get  over  his.' 

Mr.  Hare  looked  as  if  he  thought  these  opinions 
were  of  a  doubtful  orthodoxy. 

'  He  is  quite  different,'  he  said,  '  from  other  young 
men.  I  never  remember  having  seen  him  pay  any 
woman  the  least  attention.  When  he  speaks  of 
women  it  is  only  to  sneer.' 

'He  does  that  to  annoy  me.' 

'  Do  you  think  so .?  I  was  afraid  it  was  owing  to 
a  natural  dislike.'  The  conversation  paused  for  a 
moment,  and  then  Mr.  Hare  said : 

'Have  you  had  any  news  of  him  lately.^' 


JOHN  NORTON.  263 

*  Yes,  he  wrote  yesterday,  but  he  did  not  speak 
of  coming  home.' 

*What  did  he  say.?' 

'  He  said  he  was  meditating  a  book  on  the  works 
of  bishops  and  monks  who  wrote  Latin  in  the  early 
centuries.  He  has  put  up  a  thirteenth  century  win- 
dow in  the  chapel,  and  he  wants  me  to  go  up  to 
London  to  make  inquiries  about  organs.  He  is 
prepared  to  go  as  far  as  a  thousand  pounds.  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing.-*  Those  Jesuits  are 
encouraging  him.  Of  course  it  would  just  suit 
them  if  he  became  a  priest  —  nothing  would  suit 
them  better;  the  whole  property  would  fall  into 
their  hands.  Now,  what  I  want  you  to  do,  my  dear 
friend,  is  to  go  to  Stanton  College  to-morrow,  or 
next  day,  as  soon  as  you  possibly  can,  and  to  talk 
to  John.  You  must  tell  him  how  unwise  it  is  to 
spend  fifteen  hundred  pounds  in  one  year  building 
organs  and  putting  up  windows.  His  intentions  are 
excellent,  but  his  estate  won't  bear  such  extrava- 
gances ;  and  everybody  here  thinks  he  is  such  a 
miser.  I  want  you  to  tell  him  that  he  should  marry. 
Just  fancy  what  a  terrible  thing  it  would  be  if  the 
estate  passed  away  to  distant  relatives  —  to  those  ter- 
rible cousins  of  ours.' 

'This  is  very  serious.' 

*  Yes,  it  is  very  serious.     If  it  weren't  very  serious 


264  CELIBATES. 

I  should  not  have  put  you  to  the  trouble  of  coming 
over  here  to-day.' 

*  There  was  no  trouble  ;  I  was  glad  of  the  walk. 
But  I  don't  see  how  I  am  to  advise  you  in  this 
matter.' 

'  I  don't  want  advice.  It  is  John  who  wants 
advice.  Will  you  go  to  Stanton  College  and  talk 
to  him?' 

'  What  am  I  to  say  ? ' 

'  Tell  him  it  is  his  duty  to  return  home,  to  settle 
down  and  marry.' 

'  I  don't  think  John  would  listen  to  me  —  it  would 
not  be  prudent  to  speak  to  him  in  that  way.  He 
is  not  the  sort  of  man  who  allows  himself  to  be 
driven.  But  I  might  suggest  that  he  should  come 
home.' 

'  He  certainly  should  come  home  for  Christ- 
mas   ' 

'Very  well,  Lizzie,  that's  what  I'll  say.  I  have 
not  seen  him  for  five  years.  The  last  time  he  was 
here  I  was  away.  I  don't  think  it  would  be  a  bad 
notion  to  suggest  that  the  Jesuits  are  after  his 
money  —  that  they  are  endeavouring  to  inveigle  him 
into  the  priesthood  in  order  that  they  may  get  hold 
of  his  property.' 

'  No,  no ;  you  must  not  say  such  a  thing.  I  will 
not  have  you  say  anything  against  his  religion.     I 


JOHN  NORTON.  265 

was  very  wrong  to  suggest  such  a  thing.  I  am  sure 
no  such  idea  ever  entered  the  Jesuits'  heads.  Per- 
haps I  am  wrong  to  send  you.  .  .  .  But  I  want  you 
to  try  to  get  him  to  come  home.  Try  to  get  him  to 
come  home  for  Christmas.' 


II. 


In  large  serpentine  curves  the  road  wound  through 
a  wood  of  small  beech  trees  —  so  small  that  in  the 
November  dishevelment  the  plantations  were  like 
brushwood ;  and  lying  behind  the  wind-swept  open- 
ing were  gravel  walks,  and  the  green  spaces  of  the 
cricket  field  with  a  solitary  divine  reading  his  bre- 
viary. The  drive  turned  and  turned  again  in  great 
sloping  curves ;  more  divines  were  passed,  and  then 
there  came  a  terrace  with  a  balustrade  and  a  view  of 
the  open  country.  The  high  red  walls  of  the  college 
faced  bleak  terraces :  a  square  tower  squatted  in  the 
middle  of  the  building,  and  out  of  it  rose  the  octa- 
gon of  the  bell-tower,  and  in  the  tower  wall  was  the 
great  oak  door  studded  with  great  nails. 

'How  Birmingham  the  whole  place  does  look,' 
thought  Mr.  Hare,  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  an  imita- 
tion mediaeval  bell-pull. 

*Is  Mr,  John  Norton  at  home,?'  he  asked  when  the 
servant  came,  *  Will  you  give  him  my  card,  and  say 
that  I  should  like  to  see  him.' 

On  entering,  Mr.  Hare  found  himself  in  a  tiled 
266 


JOHN  NORTON.  267 

hall,  around  which  was  built  a  staircase  in  varnished 
oak.  There  was  a  quadrangle,  and  from  three  sides 
latticed  windows  looked  on  greensward ;  on  the 
fourth  there  was  an  open  corridor,  with  arches  to 
imitate  a  cloister.  All  was  strong  and  barren,  and 
only  about  the  varnished  staircase  was  there  any 
sign  of  comfort.  There  the  ceiling  was  panelled  in 
oak ;  and  the  banisters,  the  cocoa-nut  matting,  the 
bit  of  stained  glass,  and  the  religious  prints,  sug- 
gested a  mock  air  of  hieratic  dignity.  And  the 
room  Mr.  Hare  was  shown  into  continued  this  im- 
pression. Cabinets  in  carved  oak  harmonised  with 
high-backed  chairs  glowing  with  red  Utrecht  velvet, 
and  a  massive  table,  on  which  lay  a  folio  edition 
of  St.  Augustine's  City  of  God  and  the  EpistolcB 
ConsolitoricB  of  St.  Jerome. 

The  bell  continued  to  clang,  and  through  the  lat- 
ticed windows  Mr.  Hare  watched  the  divines  hurry- 
ing along  the  windy  terrace,  and  the  tramp  of  the 
boys  going  to  their  class-rooms  could  be  heard  in 
passages  below. 

Then  a  young  man  entered.  He  was  thin,  and  he 
was  dressed  in  black.  His  face  was  Roman,  the 
profile  especially  was  what  you  might  expect  to  find 
on  a  Roman  coin  —  a  high  nose,  a  high  cheekbone,  a 
strong  chin,  and  a  large  ear.  The  eyes  were  promi- 
nent and  luminous,  and  the  lower  part  of  the  face 


268  CELIBATES. 

was  expressive  of  resolution  and  intelligence,  but 
the  temples  retreated  rapidly  to  the  brown  hair 
which  grew  luxuriantly  on  the  top  of  the  head.  The 
mouth  was  large,  the  lips  were  thick,  dim  in  colour, 
undefined  in  shape.  The  hands  were  large,  powerful, 
and  grasping ;  they  were  earthly  hands ;  they  were 
hands  that  could  take  and  could  hold,  and  their  mate- 
rialism was  curiously  opposed  to  the  ideality  of  the 
eyes  —  an  ideality  that  touched  the  confines  of  frenzy. 
The  shoulders  were  square  and  carried  well  back,  the 
head  was  round,  with  close-cut  hair,  the  straight 
falling  coat  was  buttoned  high,  and  the  fashionable 
collar,  with  a  black  satin  cravat,  beautifully  tied  and 
relieved  with  a  rich  pearl  pin,  set  another  unexpected 
detail  to  an  aggregate  of  apparently  irreconcilable 
characteristics. 

'  And  how  do  you  do,  my  dear  Mr.  Hare  ?  Who 
would  have  expected  to  see  you  here  ?  I  am  so 
glad.' 

These  words  were  spoken  frankly  and  cordially, 
and  there  was  a  note  of  mundane  cheerfulness  in 
the  voice  which  did  not  quite  correspond  with  the 
sacerdotal  elegance  of  this  young  man.  Then  he 
added  quickly,  as  if  to  save  himself  from  asking 
the  reason  of  this  very  unexpected  visit : 

'  You'll  stay  and  dine  ?  I'll  show  you  over  the 
college:    you  have  never  been   here    before.   .   .  . 


JOHN  NORTON.  269 

Now  I  come  to  reckon  it  up,  I  find  I  have  not  seen 
you  for  nearly  five  years.' 

*  It  must  be  very  nearly  that ;  I  missed  you  the 
last  time  you  were  at  Thornby  Place,  and  that  was 
three  years  ago.' 

*  Three  years  !  It  sounds  very  shocking,  doesn't  it, 
to  have  a  beautiful  place  in  Sussex  and  not  to  live 
there  > ' 

The  conversation  paused  a  moment,  and  then  John 
said : 

'  But  you  did  not  travel  two  hundred  miles  to  see 
Stanton  College.  You  have,  I  fear,  messages  for 
me  from  my  mother.' 

'It  is  at  her  request  I  am  here.' 

'Quite  so.  You're  here  to  advise  me  to  return 
home  and  accept  the  marriage  state.' 

'It  is  only  natural  that  your  mother  should  wish 
you  to  marry.' 

'Her  determination  to  get  me  married  is  one  of 
the  reasons  why  I  am  here.  My  mother  will  not 
recognise  my  right  to  live  my  life  in  my  own 
fashion.  When  she  learns  to  respect  my  opinions 
I  will  return  home.  I  wish  you  would  impress  that 
upon  her.  I  wish  you  would  try  to  get  her  to 
understand  that.' 

*  I  will  tell  your  mother  what  you  say.  It  would 
be  well  for  her  to  know  why  you  choose  to  live  here. 


2/0  CELIBATES. 

I  agree  with  you  that  no  one  but  ourselves  can  deter- 
mine what  duties  we  should  accept.' 

*Ah  !  if  you  would  only  explain  that  to  my  mother. 
You  have  expressed  my  feelings  exactly.  I  have  no 
pity  for  those  who  take  up  burdens  and  then  say 
they  are  not  fitted  to  carry  them.  And  now  that 
disagreeable  matter  is  settled,  come  and  I  will  show 
you  over  the  college,* 

The  two  men  descended  the  staircase  into  the 
long  stony  corridor.  There  were  pictures  along  the 
walls  of  the  corridor  —  pictures  of  upturned  faces 
and  clasped  hands  —  and  these  drew  words  of  com- 
miseration for  the  artistic  ignorance  of  the  college 
authorities  from  John's  lips. 

'And  they  actually  believe  that  that  dreadful  monk 
with  the  skull  is  a  real  Ribera.  .  .  .  The  chapel  is 
on  the  right,  the  refectory  on  the  left.  Come,  let 
us  see  the  chapel;  I  am  anxious  to  hear  what  you 
think  of  my  window.* 

'  It  ought  to  be  very  handsome ;  it  cost  five  hun- 
dred, did  it  not.?' 

*No,  not  quite  so  much  as  that,'  John  answered 
abruptly  ;  and  then,  passing  through  the  communion 
rails,  they  stood  under  the  multi-coloured  glory  of 
three  bishops.  Mr.  Hare  felt  that  a  good  deal  of 
rapture  was  expected  of  him ;  but  in  his  efforts  to 
praise  he  felt  that  he  was   exposing  his  ignorance. 


JOHN  NORTON.  2/1 

John  called  his  attention  to  the  transparency  of  the 
green-watered  skies ;  and  turning  their  backs  on  the 
bishops,  the  blue  ceiling  with  the  gold  stars  was  de- 
clared, all  things  considered,  to  be  in  excellent  taste. 
The  benches  in  the  body  of  the  church  were  for  the 
boys  ;  the  carved  chairs  set  along  both  walls,  between 
the  communion  rails  and  the  first  steps  of  the  altar, 
were  for  the  divines.  The  president  and  vice-pres- 
ident knelt  facing  each  other.  The  priests,  deacons, 
and  sub-deacons  followed,  according  to  their  rank. 
There  were  slenderer  benches,  and  these  were  for 
the  choir;  and  from  the  great  gold  lectern  the 
leader  conducted  the  singing. 

The  side  altar,  with  the  Turkey  carpet  spread  over 
the  steps,  was  St.  George's,  and  further  on,  in  an 
addition  made  lately,  there  were  two  more  altars, 
dedicated  respectively  to  the  Virgin  and  St,  Joseph, 

'The  maid-servants  kneel  in  that  corner.  I  have 
often  suggested  that  they  should  be  moved  out  of 
sight.' 

*  Why  would  you  remove  them  out  of  sight  ?  You 
will  not  deny  their  right  to  hear  Mass  ? ' 

*0f  course  not.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  they 
would  be  better  away.  They  present  a  temptation 
where  there  are  a  number  of  young  men  about,  I 
have  noticed  that  some  of  the  young  men  look  round 
when  the  maid-servants  come  into  church,     I  have 


2/2  CELIBATES. 

overheard  remarks  too.  ...  I  know  not  what  attrac- 
tion they  can  find  in  such  ugliness.     It  is  beastly.* 

'  Maid-servants  are  not  attractive ;  but  if  they 
were  princesses  you  would  dislike  them  equally. 
The  severest  moralists  are  those  who  have  never 
known  the  pain  of  temptation.* 

'Perhaps  the  severest  moralists  are  those  who 
have  conquered  their  temptations.' 

*  Then  you  have  been  tempted  !  * 

John's  face  assumed  a  thoughtful  expression,  and 
he  said: 

*  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  my  inmost  soul.  This  I 
can  say,  if  I  have  had  temptations  I  have  conquered 
them.     They  have  passed  away.' 

The  conversation  paused,  and,  in  a  silence  which 
was  pregnant  with  suggestion,  they  went  up  to  the 
organ-loft,  and  he  depreciated  the  present  instrument 
and  enlarged  upon  some  technical  details  anent  the 
latest  modern  improvements  in  keys  and  stops.  He 
would  play  his  setting  of  St.  Ambrose's  hymn,  '  Veni 
redemptor  gentium,'  if  Mr.  Hare  would  go  to  the 
bellows  ;  and  feeling  as  if  he  were  being  turned  into 
ridicule,  Mr.  Hare  took  his  place  at  the  handle. 

In  the  sacristy  the  consideration  of  the  censers, 
candle-sticks,  chalices,  and  albs  took  some  time,  and 
John  was  a  little  aggressive  in  his  explanation  of 
Catholic  ceremonial,  ^nd   its  grace  and   comeliness 


JOHN  NORTON.  2/3 

compared  vrith  the  stiffness  and  materialism  of  the 
Protestant  service.  Handsome  lads  of  sixteen  were 
chosen  for  acolytes  ;  the  torch-bearers  were  selected 
from  the  smallest  boys,  the  office  of  censer  was  filled 
by  himself,  and  he  was  also  the  chief  sacristan,  and 
had  charge  of  the  altar  plate  and  linen  and  the  vest- 
ments. 

In  answer  to  Mr.  Hare,  who  asked  him  if  he  did 
not  weary  of  the  narrowness  of  ecclesiastical  life, 
John  said  that  when  the  desire  of  travel  came  upon 
him,  he  had  to  consult  no  one's  taste  or  convenience 
but  his  own,  merely  to  pack  his  portmanteau.  Last 
year  he  had  been  through  Russia,  and  had  enjoyed 
his  stay  in  Constantinople.  And  while  speaking  of 
the  mosques  he  said  that  he  had  had  an  ancestor  who 
had  fought  in  the  crusades.  Perhaps  it  was  from 
him  he  had  inherited  his  love  and  comprehension  of 
Byzantine  art  —  he  did  not  say  so,  but  it  might  be 
so  ;  one  of  the  mysteries  of  atavism  !  Who  shall  say 
where  they  end.' 

'You  would  have  liked  to  have  fought  in  the  cru- 
sades ? ' 

'Yes,  I  think  that  I  should  have  made  a  good 
knight.  The  hardships  they  underwent  were  no 
doubt  quite  extraordinary.  But  I  am  strong ;  my 
bones  are  heavy ;  my  chest  is  deep ;  I  can  bear  a 
great  deal  of  fatigue.' 


274  CELIBATES. 

Then  laughing  lightly  he  said : 

*  You  can't  imagine  me  as  a  knight  on  the  way  to 
the  Grail.' 

'Why  not.?  I  think  you  would  have  acquitted 
yourself  very  well.' 

'The  crusades  were  once  as  real  in  life  as  ten- 
nis parties  are  to-day ;  and  I  think  infinitely  more 
beautiful.' 

'You  would  not  have  fought  in  the  tournaments 
for  a  lady  love  .-' ' 

'  Perhaps  not ;  I  should  have  fought  for  the  Grail, 
like  Parsifal.  I  was  at  Bayreuth  last  year.  But 
Bayreuth  is  no  longer  what  it  was.  Popular  innova- 
tions have  been  introduced  into  the  performances. 
Would  you  believe  it,  the  lovely  music  in  the  cupola, 
written  by  Wagner  for  boys*  voices,  is  now  sung  by 
women.* 

'Surely  a  woman's  voice  is  finer  than  a  boy's.' 

'  It  is  more  powerful,  of  course  ;  but  it  has  not 
the  same  quality  —  the  timbre  is  so  much  grosser. 
Besides,  women's  voices  are  opposed  to  the  eccle- 
siastical spirit.' 

'  How  closely  you  do  run  your  hobby.' 

'No ;  in  art  I  have  no  prejudices  ;  I  recognise  the 
beauty  of  a  woman's  voice  in  its  proper  place  —  in 
opera.  It  is  as  inappropriate  to  have  Palestrina  sung 
by  women  as  it  would  be  to  have   Brunnhilde   and 


JOHN  NORTON.  275 

Isolde  sung  by  boys  —  at  least  so  it  seems  to  me. 
I  was  at  Cologne  last  year  —  that  is  the  only  place 
where  you  can  hear  Palestrina.  I  was  very  lucky  — 
I  heard  the  great  Mass,  the  Mass  of  Pope  Marcellus. 
Wagner's  music  in  the  cupola  is  very  lovely,  but  it 
does  not  compare  with  Palestrina.' 

From  the  sacristy  they  went  to  the  boys'  library, 
and  while  affecting  to  take  an  interest  in  the  books 
Mr.  Hare  continued  to  encourage  John  to  talk  of 
himself.     Did  he  never  feel  lonely.^ 

'  No,  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  feel  lonely.  In 
the  morning  I  write  ;  I  ride  in  the  afternoon  ;  I  read 
in  the  evening.  I  read  a  great  deal  —  literature  and 
music' 

'  But  when  you  go  abroad  you  go  alone  —  do  you 
feel  no  need  of  a  companion  ?  Do  you  never  make 
acquaintances  when  you  go  abroad.^' 

*  People  don't  interest  me.  I  am  interested  in 
things  much  more  than  in  people  —  in  pictures,  in 
music,  in  sculpture.  When  I'm  abroad  I  like  the 
streets,  I  like  to  see  people  moving  about,  I  like  to 
watch  the  spectacle  of  life,  but  I  do  not  care  to  make 
acquaintances.  As  I  grow  older  it  seems  to  me  that 
a  process  of  alienation  is  going  on  between  me  and 
others.' 

They  stopped  on  the  landings  of  the  staircases ; 
they   lingered    in    the    passages,    and,    speaking   of 


276  CELIBATES. 

his  admiration  of  the  pagan  world,  John  said : 
*  It  knew  how  to  idealise,  it  delighted  in  the  outward 
form,  but  it  raised  it,  invested  it  with  a  sense  of 
aloofness.  .  .  .  You  know  what  I  mean.'  He 
looked  inquiringly  at  Mr.  Hare,  and,  gesticulating 
with  his  fingers,  said,  'You  know  what  I  mean.* 

'A  beyond.?' 

'  Yes ;  that's  the  word  —  a  beyond.  There  must 
be  a  beyond.  In  Wagner  there  is  none.  That  is 
his  weakness.  He  is  too  perfect.  Never  since  the 
world  began  did  an  artist  realise  himself  so  com- 
pletely. He  achieved  all  he  desired,  therefore  some- 
thing is  wanting.  A  beyond  is  wanting.  ...  I  do 
not  say  that  I  have  changed  my  opinion  regarding 
Wagner,  I  still  admire  him :  but  I  no  longer  accept 
his  astonishing  ingenuities  for  inspiration.  No,  I'm 
not  afraid  to  say  it,  I  bar  nearly  the  whole  first  act  of 
Parsifal.  For  instance,  Gurnemanz's  long  narrative, 
into  which  is  introduced  all  the  motives  of  the  opera 
—  is  merely  beautiful  musical  handicraft,  and  I  cannot 
accept  handicraft,  however  beautiful,  for  inspiration. 
I  rank  much  higher  the  entrance  of  Kundry  —  her 
evocation  of  Arabia.  .  .  .  That  is  a  real  inspiration ! 
The  over-praised  choruses  are  beautiful,  but  again 
I  have  to  make  reservations.  These  choruses  are, 
you  know,  divided  into  three  parts.  The  chorus  of 
the  knights  is  ordinary  enough,  the  chorus  of  the 


JOHN  NORTON.  2// 

young  men  I  like  better,  but  I  can  only  give  my 
unqualified  admiration  to  the  chcrus  of  the  children. 
Again,  the  chorus  of  the  young  girls  in  the  second 
act  is  merely  beautiful  writing,  and  there  is  no  real 
inspiration  until  we  get  to  the  great  duet  between 
Kundry  and  Parsifal.  The  moment  Kundry  calls 
to  Parsifal,  "  Parsifal  ,  .  ,  Remain  !  "  those  are  the 
words,  I  think,  Wagner  inspiration  begins,  then  he 
is  profound,  then  he  says  interesting  things.'  John 
opened  the  door  of  his  room. 

In  the  centre  of  the  floor  was  an  oak  table  —  a 
table  made  of  sharp  slabs  of  oak  laid  upon  a  frame 
that  was  evidently  of  ancient  design,  probably  early 
German,  a  great,  gold  screen  sheltered  a  high  canoni- 
cal chair  with  elaborate  carvings,  and  on  a  read- 
ing-stand close  by  lay  the  manuscript  of  a  Latin 
poem. 

The  parson  looked  round  for  a  seat,  but  the  chairs 
were  like  cottage  stools  on  high  legs,  and  the 
angular  backs  looked  terribly  knife-like. 

'  Shall  I  get  you  a  pillow  from  the  next  room  ? 
Personally  I  cannot  bear  upholstery.  I  cannot 
conceive  anything  more  hideous  than  a  padded  arm- 
chair. All  design  is  lost  in  that  infamous  stuffing. 
Stuffing  is  a  vicious  excuse  for  the  absence  of 
design.  If  upholstery  were  forbidden  by  law  to- 
morrow, in  ten  years   we   should  have  a  school  of 


278  CELIBATES. 

design.  Then  the  necessity  of  composition  would 
be  imperative.' 

'  I  daresay  there  is  a  good  deal  in  what  you  say ; 
but  tell  me,  don't  you  find  these  chairs  very  uncom- 
fortable .''  Don't  you  think  that  you  would  find  a 
good  comfortable  arm-chair  very  useful  for  reading 
purposes  ? ' 

•No,  I  should  feel  far  more  uncomfortable  on  a 
cushion  than  I  do  on  this  bit  of  hard  oak.  Our  an- 
cestors had  an  innate  sense  of  form  that  we  have 
not.  Look  at  these  chairs,  nothing  can  be  plainer; 
a  cottage  stool  is  hardly  more  simple,  and  yet  they 
are  not  offensive  to  the  eye.  I  had  them  made 
from  a  picture  by  Albert  Durer.' 

Mr.  Hare  smoked  in  silence,  uncertain  how  far 
John  was  in  earnest,  how  far  he  was  assuming  an 
attitude  of  mind.  Presently  he  walked  over  to  the 
book-cases.  There  were  two :  one  was  filled  with 
learned-looking  volumes  bearing  the  names  of  Latin 
authors ;  and  the  parson,  who  prided  himself  on 
his  Latinity,  was  surprised,  and  a  little  nettled,  to 
find  so  much  ignorance  proved  upon  him.  With 
Tertullian,  St.  Jerome,  and  St.  Augustine,  he  was 
acquainted,  but  of  Lactantius  Hibernicus  Exul, 
Angilbert,  he  was  obliged  to  admit  he  knew  noth- 
ing—  even  the  names  were  unknown  to  him. 

In  the  book-case  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room 


JOHN  NORTON.  2/9 

there  were  complete  editions  of  Landor  and  Swift, 
then  came  two  large  volumes  on  Leonardo  da  Vinci. 
Raising  his  eyes,  the  parson  read  through  the  titles : 
Browning's  works ;  Tennyson  in  a  cheap  seven-and- 
six  edition  ;  Swinburne,  Pater,  Rossetti,  Morris,  two 
novels  by  Rhoda  Broughton,  Dickens,  Thackeray, 
Fielding,  and  Smollett ;  the  complete  works  of 
Balzac,  Gautier's  Etnaux  et  Cam^es,  Salammbo, 
L'Assommoir;  Carlyle,  Newman,  Byron,  Shelley, 
Keats,  and  the  dramatists  of  the  Restoration. 

At  the  end  of  a  long  silence  Mr.  Hare  said 
glancing  once  again  at  the  Latin  authors,  and  walk- 
ing towards  the  fire  : 

*  Tell  me,  John,  are  those  the  books  you  are 
writing  about }  Supposing  you  explain  to  me,  in  a 
few  words,  the  line  you  are  taking.  Your  mother 
tells  me  that  you  intend  to  call  your  book  the 
History  of  Christian  Latin.' 

'  Yes,  I  had  thought  of  using  that  title,  but  I 
am  afraid  it  is  a  little  too  ambitious.  To  write 
the  history  of  a  literature  extending  over  at  least 
eight  centuries  would  entail  an  appalling  amount 
of  reading  ;  and  besides,  only  a  few,  say  a  couple 
of  dozen  writers  out  of  some  hundreds,  are  of  the 
slightest  literary  interest,  and  very  few  indeed  of 
any  real  aesthetic  value. 

*  Ah ! '  he  said,  as  his   eye  lighted  on  a  certain 


28o  CELIBATES. 

name,  '  here  is  Marbodius,  a  great  poet ;  how  well 
he  understood  women  !     Listen  to  this : 

* "  Femina,  dulce  malum,  pariter  favus  atque  venenum, 
Melle  linens  gladium  cor  confodit  et  sapientum. 
Quis  suasit  primo  vetitum  gustare  parent!  ? 
Femina.     Quis  partem  natas  vitiare  coegit? 
Femina.     Quis  fortem  spoliatum  crine  peremit? 
Femina.     Quis  justi  sacrum  caput  ense  recidit  ? 
Femina,  quae  matris  cumulavit  crimine  crimen, 
Incestum  gravem  graviori  caede  notavit.  .  .  . 

"  Chimeram 
Cui  non  immerito  fertur  data  forma  triformis. 
Nam  pars  prima  leo,  pars  ultima  cauda  draconis, 
Et  mediae  partes  nil  sunt  nisi  fervidus  ignis." ' 

'Well,  of  course,  that  quite  carries  out  your 
views  of  women.  And  now  tell  me  what  I  am  to 
say  to  your  mother.  Will  you  come  home  for 
Christmas  ? ' 

'I  suppose  I  must.  I  suppose  it  would  seem 
unkind  if  I  didn't.  I  wonder  why  I  dislike  the 
place  .-^  I  cannot  think  of  it  without  a  revulsion  of 
feeling.' 

*I  won't  argue  that  point  with  you,  but  I  think 
you  ought  to  come  home.' 

'  Why  come  home .''  Come  home  and  marry  my 
neighbour's  daughter — one  of  those  Austin  girls, 
for  instance.^      Fancy  my  settling    down    to    live 


JOHN  NORTON.  28 1 

with  one  them,  and  undertaking  to  look  after  her 
all  my  life;  walking  after  her  carrying  a  parasol 
and  a  shawl.  Don't  you  see  the  ludicrous  side.? 
I  always  see  a  married  man  carrying  a  parasol  and 
a  shawl  —  a  parasol  and  a  shawl,  the  symbols  of  his 
office.'    John  laughed  loudly. 

'The  swinging  of  a  censer  and  the  chanting  of 
Latin  responses  are  equally  absurd  if ' 

*  Do  you  think  so  ? ' 

'Ritual  is  surely  not  the  whole  of  religion.?' 

*No.  But  we  were  speaking  of  several  rituals, 
and  Catholic  ritual  seems  to  me  more  dignified 
than  that  of  the  shawl  and  parasol.  The  social 
life  of  the  nineteenth  century,  that  is  to  say, 
drawing-rooms,  filled  with  half-dressed  women,  pre- 
sent no  attraction  for  me.  You  and  my  mother 
think  because  I  do  not  wish  to  marry  and  spend 
some  small  part  of  my  time  in  this  college  that  I 
intend  to  become  a  priest.  Marry  and  bring  up 
children,  or  enter  the  Church !  There  is  nothing 
between,  so  you  say,  having  regard  for  my 
Catholicism.  But  there  is  an  intermediate  state, 
the  onlooker.  However  strange  it  may  seem  to 
you,  I  do  assure  you  that  no  man  in  the  world 
has  less  vocation  for  the  priesthood  than  I.  I  am 
merely  an  onlooker,  the  world  is  my  monastery. 
I  am  an  onlooker.' 


282  CELIBATES. 

*Is  not  that  a  very  selfish  attitude?* 

*  My  attitude  is  this.  There  is  a  mystery.  No 
one  denies  that.  An  explanation  is  necessary,  and 
I  accept  the  explanation  offered  by  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church.  I  obey  Her  in  all  her  instruc- 
tion for  the  regulation  of  life  ;  I  shirk  nothing,  I 
omit  nothing,  I  allow  nothing  to  come  between  me 
and  my  religion.  Whatever  the  Church  says  I 
believe,  and  so  all  responsibility  is  removed  from 
me.  But  this  is  an  attitude  of  mind  which  you  as 
a  Protestant  cannot  sympathise  with.' 

*  I  know,  my  dear  John,  I  know  your  life  is  not  a 
dissolute  one ;  but  your  mother  is  very  anxious  — 
remember  you  are  the  last.  Is  there  no  chance  of 
your  ever  marrying } ' 

*  I  fear  I  am  not  suited  to  married  life.  There  is 
a  better  and  a  purer  life  to  lead  ...  an  inner  life, 
coloured  and  permeated  with  feelings  and  tones  that 
are  intensely  our  own.  He  who  may  live  this  life 
shrinks  from  any  adventitious  presence  that  might 
jar  it.' 

*  Maybe,  it  certainly  would  take  too  long  to  discuss 
—  I  should  miss  my  train.  But  tell  me,  are  you 
coming  home  for  Christmas } ' 

'  Yes,  yes ;  I  have  some  estate  business  to  see  to. 
I  shall  be  home  for  Christmas.  As  for  your  train 
.  .  .  will  find  out  all  about  your  train  presently  .  .  . 
you  must  stay  to  dinner.' 


III. 


*  I  WAS  very  much  alarmed,  ray  dear  John,  about 
your  not  sleeping.  Mr.  Hare  told  me  you  said  that 
you  went  two  or  three  nights  without  closing  your 
eyes,  and  that  you  had  to  have  recourse  to  sleeping 
draughts,' 

'  Not  at  all,  mother,  I  never  took  a  sleeping  draught 
but  twice  in  my  life.' 

'Well,  you  don't  sleep  well,  and  I  am  sure  it  is 
those  college  beds.  But  you  will  be  far  more 
comfortable  here.  You  are  in  the  best  bedroom  in 
the  house,  the  one  in  front  of  the  staircase,  the 
bridal  chamber ;  and  I  have  selected  the  largest  and 
softest  feather-bed  in  the  house.' 

*  My  dear  mother,  if  there  is  one  thing  more  than 
another  I  dislike,  it  is  a  feather-bed.  I  should  not 
be  able  to  close  my  eyes ;  I  beg  of  you  to  have  it 
taken  away.' 

Mrs.  Norton's  face  flushed.  'I  cannot  under- 
stand, John ;  it  is  absurd  to  say  that  you  cannot 
sleep  on  a  feather-bed.  Mr.  Hare  told  me  you 
complained  of  insomnia,  and  there  is  no  surer  way 

283 


284  CELIBATES. 

of  losing  your  health.  It  is  owing  to  the  hardness 
of  those  college  mattresses,  whereas  in  a  feather- 
bed  • 

'There  is  no  use  in  our  arguing  that  point, 
mother.     I  say  I  cannot  sleep  on  a  feather-bed ' 

'  But  you  have  not  tried  one ;  I  don't  believe 
you  ever  slept  on  a  feather-bed  in  your  life.' 

'Well,    I    am    not   going   to   begin   now.* 

'We  haven't  another  bed  aired,  and  it  is  really 
too  late  to  ask  the  servants  to  change  your  room.' 

'Well,  then,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  sleep  at  the 
hotel  in  Henfield.' 

'You  should  not  speak  to  your  mother  in  that 
way ;  I  will  not  have  it.' 

'  There !  you  see  we  are  quarrelling  already ;  I 
did  wrong  to  come  home.' 

*  It  was  not  to  please  me  that  you  came  home. 
You  were  afraid  if  you  didn't  you  mightn't  find 
another  tenant  for  the  Beeding  farm.  You  were 
afraid  you  might  have  it  on  your  hands.  It  was 
self-interest  that  brought  you  home.  Don't  try  to 
make  me  believe  it  wasn't.' 

Then  the  conversation  drifted  into  angry  dis- 
cussion. 

'  You  are  not  even  a  J.  P.,  but  there  will  be  no 
difficulty  about  that ;  you  must  make  application 
to  the  Lord-Lieutenant.  .  .  .     You  have  not   seen 


JOHN  NORTON.  285 

any  of  the  county  people  for  years.  We'll  have 
the  carriage  out  some  day  this  week,  and  we'll 
pay  a  round  of  visits.' 

'We'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  have  no  time 
for  visiting ;  I  must  get  on  with  my  book.  I  hope 
to  finish  my  study  of  St.  Augustine  before  I  leave 
here.  I  have  my  books  to  unpack,  and  a  great 
deal  of  reading  to  get  through.  I  have  done  no 
more  than  glance  at  the  Anglo-Latin.  Literature 
died  in  France  with  Gregory  of  Tours  at  the  end 
of  the  sixth  century  ;  with  St.  Gregory  the  Great, 
in  Italy,  at  the  commencement  of  the  seventh  cent- 
ury ;  in  Spain  about  the  same  time.  And  then 
the  Anglo-Saxons  became  the  representatives  of 
the  universal  literature.  All  this  is  most  impor- 
tant.    I  must  re-read  St.  Aldhelm.' 

'Now,  sir,  we  have  had  quite  enough  of  that, 
and  I  would  advise  you  not  to  go  on  with  any 
of  that  nonsense  here ;  you  will  be  turned  into 
dreadful  ridicule.' 

'That's  just  why  I  wish  to  avoid  them.  Just 
fancy  my  having  to  listen  to  them !  What  is  the 
use  of  growing  wheat  when  we  are  only  getting 
eight  pounds  ten  a  load  .<*...  But  we  must  grow 
something,  and  there  is  nothing  else  but  wheat. 
We  must  procure  a  certain  amount  of  straw,  or 
we'd  have  no  manure.     I  don't  believe  in  the  fish 


286  CELIBATES. 

manure.  But  there  is  market  gardening,  and  if 
we  kept  shops  at  Brighton,  we  could  grow  our 
own  stuff  and  sell  it  at  retail  price.  .  .  .  And 
then  there  is  a  great  deal  to  be  done  with  flowers.' 

'  Now,  sir,  that  will  do,  that  will  do.  .  .  .  How 
dare  you  speak  to  me  so !  I  will  not  allow  it.' 
And  then  relapsing  into  an  angry  silence,  Mrs. 
Norton  drew  her  shawl  about  her  shoulders. 

'Why  will  she  continue  to  impose  her  will  upon 
mine  ?  Why  has  she  not  found  out  by  this  time 
the  uselessness  of  her  effort  >  She  hopes  at  last 
to  wear  me  down.  She  wants  me  to  live  the  life 
she  has  marked  out  for  me  to  live  —  to  take  up 
my  position  in  the  county,  and,  above  all,  to  marry 
and  give  her  an  heir  to  the  property.  I  see  it  all ; 
that  is  why  she  wanted  me  to  spend  Christmas 
with  her;  that  is  why  she  has  Kitty  Hare  here 
to  meet  me.  How  cunning,  how  mean  women  are ! 
a  man  would  not  do  that.  Had  I  known  it.  .  .  . 
I  have  a  mind  to  leave  to-morrow.  I  wonder  if  the 
girl  is  in  the  little  conspiracy.'  And  turning  his 
head  he  looked  at  her. 

Tall  and  slight,  a  grey  dress,  pale  as  the  wet 
sky,  fell  from  her  waist  outward  in  the  manner 
of  a  child's  frock.  There  was  a  lightness,  there 
was  brightness  in  the  clear  eyes.  The  intense 
youth    of    her    heart   was    evanescent ;    it    seemed 


JOHN  NORTON.  287 

constantly  rising  upwards  like  the  breath  of  a 
spring  morning.  The  face  sharpened  to  a  tiny 
chin,  and  the  face  was  pale,  although  there  was 
bloom  on  the  cheeks.  The  forehead  was  shadowed 
by  a  sparkling  cloud  of  brown  hair,  the  nose  was 
straight,  and  each  little  nostril  was  pink  tinted. 
The  ears  were  like  shells.  There  was  a  rigidity  in 
her  attitude.  She  laughed  abruptly,  perhaps  a  little 
nervously,  and  the  abrupt  laugh  revealed  the  line 
of  tiny  white  teeth.  Thin  arms  fell  straight  to 
the  translucent  hands,  and  there  was  a  recollection 
of  Puritan  England  in  look  and  in  gesture. 

Her  picturesqueness  calmed  John's  ebullient  dis- 
content ;  he  decided  that  she  knew  nothing  of,  and 
was  not  an  accomplice  in,  his  mother's  scheme. 
And,  for  the  sake  of  his  guest,  he  strove  to  make 
himself  agreeable  during  dinner,  but  it  was  clear 
that  he  missed  the  hierarchy  of  the  college  table. 
The  conversation  fell  repeatedly.  Mrs,  Norton  and 
Kitty  spoke  of  making  syrup  for  bees  ;   and   their 

discussion  of  the  illness  of  poor  Dr. ,  who  would 

no  longer  be  able  to  get  through  the  work  of  the 
parish  single-handed,  and  would  require  a  curate,  was 
continued  till  the  ladies  rose  from  the  table.  Nor 
did  matters  mend  in  the  library.  The  room  seemed 
to  him  intolerably  uncomfortable  and  ugly,  and  he 
went  to  the  billiard-room  to  smoke  a  cigar.     It  was 


288  CELIBATES. 

not  clear  to  him  that  he  would  be  able  to  spend  two 
months  in  Thornby  Place.  If  every  evening  passed 
like  the  present,  it  were  a  modern  martyrdom.  .  .  . 
But  had  they  removed  the  feather-bed.?  He  went 
upstairs.  The  feather-bed  had  been  removed.  But 
the  room  was  draped  with  many  curtains  —  pale  cur- 
tains covered  with  walking  birds  and  falling  petals, 
a  sort  of  Indian  pattern  There  was  a  sofa  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  and  a  toilet  table  hung  out  its  skirts 
in  the  light  of  the  fire.  He  thought  of  his  ascetic 
college  bed,  of  the  great  Christ  upon  the  wall,  of  the 
prie-dieu  with  the  great  rosary  hanging.  To  lie  in 
this  great  bed  seemed  ignoble ;  and  he  could  not 
rid  his  mind  of  the  distasteful  feminine  influences 
which  had  filled  the  day,  and  which  now  haunted 
the  night. 

After  breakfast  next  morning  Mrs.  Norton  stopped 
John  as  he  was  going  upstairs  to  unpack  his  books. 
'  Now,'  she  said,  '  you  must  go  out  for  a  walk  with 
Kitty  Hare,  and  I  hope  you  will  make  yourself 
agreeable.  I  want  you  to  see  the  new  greenhouse 
I  have  put  up ;  she'll  show  it  to  you.  And  I  told 
the  bailiff  to  meet  you  in  the  yard.  I  thought  you 
would  like  to  see  him.' 

'I  wish,  mother,  you  would  not  interfere  in  my 
business;  had  I  wanted  to  see  Burns  I  should  have 
sent  for  him.' 


JOHN  NORTON.  289 

'  If  you  don't  want  to  see  him,  he  wants  to  see 
you.  There  are  some  cottages  on  the  farm  that 
must  be  put  into  repair  at  once.  As  for  interfering 
in  your  business,  I  don't  know  how  you  can  talk  like 
that ;  were  it  not  for  me  the  whole  place  would  be 
falling  to  pieces.' 

'Quite  true;  I  know  you  save  me  a  great  deal 
of  expense  ;  but  really ' 

'Really  what.^  You  won't  go  out  to  walk  with 
Kitty  Hare.?' 

*  I  did  not  say  I  wouldn't,  but  I  must  say  that  I 
am  very  busy  just  now.  I  had  thought  of  doing  a 
little  reading,  for  I  have  an  appointment  with  my 
solicitor  in  the  afternoon.' 

'That  man  charges  you  ;^200  a  year  for  collect- 
ing the  rents  ;  now,  if  you  were  to  do  it  yourself, 
you  would  save  the  money,  and  it  would  give  you 
something  to  do.* 

'  Something  to  do !  I  have  too  much  to  do  as  it 
is.  .  .  .  But  if  I  am  going  out  with  Kitty  I  may 
as  well  go  at  once.     Where  is  she } ' 

'I  saw  her  go  into  the  library  a  moment  ago.' 

It  was  preferable  to  go  for  a  walk  with  Kitty 
than  to  continue  the  interview  with  his  mother. 
John  seized  his  hat  and  called  Kitty,  Kitty,  Kitty ! 
Presently  she  appeared,  and  they  walked  towards 
the  garden,  talking.     She  told   him   she   had   been 


290 


CELIBATES. 


at  Thornby  Place  the  whole  time  the  greenhouse 
was  being  built,  and  when  they  opened  the  door 
they  were  greeted  by  Sammy.  He  sprang  instantly 
on  her  shoulder. 

*  This  is  my  cat,'  she  said.  '  I've  fed  him  since  he 
was  a  little  kitten ;  isn't  he  sweet  ? ' 

The  girl's  beauty  appeared  on  the  brilliant  flower 
background ;  and  the  boyish  slightness  of  her  figure 
led  John  to  think  of  a  statuette  done  in  a  period 
of  Greek  decadence.  *  Others,'  he  thought,  '  would 
only  see  her  as  a  somewhat  too  thin  example  of 
English  maidenhood.  I  see  her  quite  differently.' 
And  when  her  two  tame  rooks  alighted  at  her  feet, 
he  said : 

'  I  wonder  how  you  can  let  them  come  near  you.' 

*  Why  not ;  don't  you  like  birds  .-* ' 

'  No,  they  frighten  me ;  there's  something  electric 
about  birds.' 

*  Poor  little  things,  they  fell  out  of  the  nest  before 
they  could  fly,  and  I  brought  them  up.  You  don't 
care  for  pets } ' 

'  I  don't  like  birds.  I  couldn't  sit  in  a  room  with  a 
large  bird.  There's  something  in  the  sensation  of 
feathers  I  can't  bear.' 

'  Don't  like  birds  !  Why,  that  seems  as  if  you  said 
that  you  didn't  like  flowers.' 

And  while  the  young  squire  talked  to  his  bailiff 


JOHN  NORTON.  29 1 

Kitty  fed  her  rooks.  They  cawed,  and  flew  to  her 
hand  for  the  scraps  of  meat.  The  coachman  came  to 
speak  about  oats  and  straw.  They  went  to  the 
stables.  Kitty  adored  horses,  and  it  amused  John 
to  see  her  pat  them,  and  her  vivacity  and  hght- 
heartedness  rather  pleased  him  than  otherwise. 

Nevertheless,  during  the  whole  of  the  following 
week  the  ladies  held  little  communication  with  John. 
In  the  morning  he  went  out  with  his  bailiffs  to  in- 
spect farms  and  consult  about  possible  improvement 
and  necessary  repairs.  He  had  appointments  with 
his  solicitor.  There  were  accounts  to  be  gone 
through.  He  never  paid  a  bill  without  verifying 
every  item.  At  four  o'clock  he  came  in  to  tea,  his 
head  full  of  calculations  of  such  complex  character 
that  even  his  mother  could  not  follow  the  different 
statements  to  his  satisfaction.  When  she  disagreed 
with  him  he  took  up  the  Epistles  of  St.  Columban  of 
Bangor  the  Epistola  ad  Sethum,  or  the  celebrated 
poem,  Epistola  ad  Fedolium,  written  when  the  saint 
was  seventy-two,  and  continued  his  reading,  making 
copious  notes  in  a  pocket-book. 


IV. 


On  the  morning  of  the  meet  of  the  hounds  he 
was  called  an  hour  earlier.  He  drank  a  cup  of 
tea  and  ate  a  piece  of  dry  toast  in  a  back  room. 
The  dining-room  was  full  of  servants,  who  laid  out 
a  long  table  rich  with  comestibles  and  glittering 
with  glass.  Mrs.  Norton  and  Kitty  were  upstairs 
dressing. 

He  wandered  into  the  drawing-room  and  viewed 
the  dead,  cumbrous  furniture;  the  two  cabinets  bright 
with  brass  and  veneer.  He  stood  at  the  window 
staring.  It  was  raining.  The  yellow  of  the  falling 
leaves  was  hidden  in  grey  mist.  '  This  weather  will 
keep  many  away ;  so  much  the  better ;  there  will 
be  too  many  as  it  is.  I  wonder  who  this  can  be.' 
A  melancholy  brougham  passed  up  the  drive.  There 
were  three  old  maids,  all  looking  sweetly  alike ;  one 
was  a  cripple  who  walked  with  crutches,  and  her 
smile  was  the  best  and  the  gayest  imaginable  smile. 

'How  little  material  welfare  has  to  do  with  our 
happiness,'  thought  John.  'There  is  one  whose 
path  is  the  narrowest,  and  she  is  happier  and  better 

292 


JOHN  NORTON.  293 

than  I.'  And  then  the  three  sweet  old  maids  talked 
with  their  cousin  of  the  weather ;  and  they  all  won- 
dered—  a  sweet  feminine  wonderment — if  he  would 
see  a  girl  that  day  whom  he  would  marry. 

Presently  the  house  was  full  of  people.  The 
passage  was  full  of  girls ;  a  few  men  sat  at  break- 
fast at  the  end  of  the  long  table.  Some  red-coats 
passed.  The  huntsman  stopped  in  front  of  the 
house,  the  dogs  sniffed  here  and  there,  the  whips 
trotted  their  horses  and  drove  them  back.  *  Get 
together,  get  together ;  get  back  there !  Woodland 
Beauty,  come  up  here.'  The  hounds  rolled  on  the 
grass  and  leaned  their  fore-paws  on  the  railings, 
willing  to  be  caressed. 

'  Now,  John,  try  and  make  yourself  agreeable ;  go 
over  and  talk  to  some  of  the  young  ladies.  Why 
do  you  dress  yourself  in  that  way  ?  Have  you  no 
other  coat.?  You  look  like  a  young  priest.  Look 
at  that  young  man  over  there;  how  nicely  dressed 
he  is  !  I  wish  you  would  let  your  moustache  grow ; 
it  would  improve  you  immensely.'  With  these  and 
similar  remarks  whispered  to  him,  Mrs.  Norton 
continued  to  exasperate  her  son  until  the  servants 
announced  that  lunch  was  ready.  'Take  in  Mrs. 
So-and-so,'  she  said  to  John,  who  would  fain  have 
escaped  from  the  melting  glances  of  the  lady  in 
the  long  seal-skin.     He   offered   her  his  arm   with 


294  CELIBATES. 

an  air  of  resignation,  and  set  to   work  valiantly  to 
carve  a  large  turkey. 

As  soon  as  the  servants  had  cleared  away  after 
one  set  another  came,  and  although  the  meet  was 
a  small  one,  John  took  six  ladies  in  to  lunch.  About 
half-past  three  the  men  adjourned  to  the  billiard- 
room  to  smoke.  The  numerous  girls  followed,  and 
with  their  arms  round  each  other's  waists  and  inter 
lacing  fingers,  they  grouped  themselves  about  the 
room.  At  five  the  huntsmen  returned,  and  much 
to  his  annoyance,  John  had  to  furnish  them  with  a 
change  of  clothes.  There  was  tea  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  soon  after  the  visitors  began  to  take  their 
leave. 

The  wind  blew  very  coldly,  the  roosting  rooks 
rose  out  of  the  branches,  and  the  carriages  rolled 
into  the  night ;  but  still  a  remnant  of  visitors  stood 
on  the  steps  talking  to  John.  He  felt  very  ill,  and 
now  a  long  sharp  pain  had  grown  through  his  left 
side,  and  momentarily  it  became  more  and  more 
difficult  to  exchange  polite  words  and  smiles.  The 
footmen  stood  waiting  by  the  open  door,  the  horses 
champed  their  bits,  the  green  of  the  park  was  dark, 
and  a  group  of  girls  moved  about  the  loggia,  wheels 
grated  on  the  gravel  ...  all  were  gone !  The 
butler  shut  the  door,  and  John  went  to  the  library 
fire. 


JOHN  NORTON.  295 

There  his  mother  found  him.  She  saw  that  some- 
thing was  seriously  the  matter.  He  was  helped 
up  to  bed,  and  the  doctor  sent  for. 

For  more  than  a  week  he  suffered.  He  lay  bent 
over,  unable  to  straighten  himself,  as  if  a  nerve 
had  been  wound  up  too  tightly  in  the  left  side.  He 
was  fed  on  gruel  and  beef-tea,  the  room  was  kept 
very  warm ;  it  was  not  until  the  twelfth  day  that  he 
was  taken  out  of  bed. 

*  You  have  had  a  narrow  escape,'  the  doctor  said  to 
John,  who,  well  wrapped  up,  lay  back,  looking  very 
pale  and  weak,  before  a  blazing  fire.  *  It  was  lucky 
I  was  sent  for.  Twenty-four  hours  later  I  would  not 
have  answered  for  your  life.' 

*  I  was  delirious,  was  I  not } ' 

*  Yes ;  you  cursed  and  swore  fearfully  at  us  when 
we  rolled  you  up  in  the  mustard  plaster.  It  was  very 
hot,  and  must  have  burnt  you.' 

*  It  has  scarcely  left  a  bit  of  skin  on  me.  But  did 
I  use  very  bad  language  ?  I  suppose  I  could  not  help 
it.  .  .  .     I  was  delirious,  was  I  not  1 ' 

'Yes,  slightly.' 

*  I  remember,  and  if  I  remember  right,  I  used  very 
bad  language.  But  people  when  they  are  delirious 
do  not  know  what  they  say.     Is  not  that  so,  doctor } ' 

'  If  they  are  really  delirious  they  do  not  remember, 
but  you  were  only  slightly  delirious  .  .  .  you  were 


296  CELIBATES. 

maddened  by  the  pain  occasioned  by  the  pungency 
of  the  plaster.' 

*  Yes  ;  but  do  you  think  I  knew  what  I  was  saying  ? ' 
'You   must   have   known  what   you  were   saying 

because  you  remember  what  you  said.' 

*  But  could  I  be  held  accountable  for  what  I  said  ? ' 
'Accountable.?  .  .  .     Well,    I   hardly   know  what 

you  mean.  You  were  certainly  not  in  the  full  pos- 
session of  your  senses.  Your  mother  (Mrs.  Norton) 
was  very  much  shocked,  but  I  told  her  that  you  were 
not  accountable  for  what  you  said.' 

'  Then  I  could  not  be  held  accountable,  I  did  not 
know  what  I  was  saying.' 

'  I  don't  think  you  did  exactly ;  people  in  a  passion 
don't  know  what  they  say ! ' 

'  Ah !  yes,  but  we  are  answerable  for  sins  com- 
mitted in  the  heat  of  passion ;  we  should  restrain  our 
passion ;  we  were  wrong  in  the  first  instance  in  giv- 
ing way  to  passion.  .  .  .  But  I  was  ill,  it  was  not 
exactly  passion.  And  I  was  very  near  death ;  I  had 
a  narrow  escape,  doctor,?' 

'Yes,  I  think  I  can  call  it  a  narrow  escape.' 

The  voices  ceased.  The  curtains  were  rosy  with 
lamp-light,  and  conscience  awoke  in  the  languors  of 
convalescent  hours.  '  I  stood  on  the  verge  of  death  ! ' 
The  whisper  died  away.  John  was  still  very  weak, 
and  he  had  not  strength  to  think  with  much  insist- 


JOHN  NORTON.  297 

ence,  but  now  and  then  remembrance  surprised  him 
suddenly  like  pain ;  it  came  unexpectedly,  he  knew 
not  whence  or  how,  but  he  could  not  choose  but 
listen.  Was  he  responsible  for  those  words  .^  He 
could  remember  them  all  now;  each  like  a  burning 
arrow  lacerated  his  bosom,  and  he  pulled  them  to 
and  fro. 

He  could  now  distinguish  the  instantaneous  sen- 
sation of  wrong  that  had  flashed  on  his  excited 
mind  in  the  moment  of  his  sinning.  .  .  .  Then  he 
could  think  no  more,  and  in  the  twilight  of  contri- 
tion he  dreamed  vaguely  of  God's  great  goodness,  of 
penance,  of  ideal  atonements.  And  as  strength 
returned,  remembrance  of  his  blasphemies  grew 
stronger  and  fiercer,  and  often  as  he  lay  on  his 
pillow,  his  thoughts  passing  in  long  procession,  his 
soul  would  leap  into  intense  suffering.  *  I  stood  on 
the  verge  of  death  with  blasphemies  on  my  tongue. 
I  might  have  been  called  to  confront  my  Maker  with 
horrible  blasphemies  in  my  heart  and  on  my  tongue ; 
but  He,  in  His.  Divine  goodness,  spared  me;  He 
gave  me  time  to  repent.  Am  I  answerable,  O  my 
God,  for  those  dreadful  words  that  I  uttered  against 
Thee,  because  I  suffered  a  little  pain,  against  Thee 
who  once  died  on  the  cross  to  save  me !  O  God, 
Lord,  in  Thine  infinite  mercy  look  down  on  me,  on 
me !     Vouchsafe  me  Thy  mercy,  O  my  God,  for  I 


298  CELIBATES. 

was  weak !  My  sin  is  loathsome ;  I  prostrate  myself 
before  Thee,  I  cry  aloud  for  mercy ! ' 

Then  seeing  Christ  amid  His  white  million  of 
youths,  beautiful  singing  saints,  gold  curls  and  gold 
aureoles,  lifted  throats,  and  form  of  harp  and  dul- 
cimer, he  fell  prone  in  great  bitterness  on  the  misery 
of  earthly  life.  His  happiness  and  ambitions  ap- 
peared to  him  less  than  the  scattering  of  a  little  sand 
on  the  sea-shore.  Joy  is  passion,  passion  is  suffer- 
ing ;  we  cannot  desire  what  we  possess ;  therefore 
desire  is  rebellion  prolonged  indefinitely  against  the 
realities  of  existence ;  when  we  attain  the  object  of 
our  desire,  we  must  perforce  neglect  it  in  favour  of 
something  still  unknown,  and  so  we  progress  from 
illusion  to  illusion.  The  winds  of  folly  and  desola- 
tion howl  about  us  ;  the  sorrows  of  happiness  are  the 
worst  to  bear,  and  the  wise  soon  learn  that  there  is 
nothing  to  dream  of  but  the  end  of  desire.  God  is 
the  one  ideal,  the  Church  the  one  shelter,  from  the 
incurable  misery  of  life.  The  life  of  the  cloister  is 
far  from  the  meanness  of  life.  And  oh !  the  voices 
of  chanting  boys,  the  cloud  of  incense,  and  the  Latin 
hymn  afloat  on  the  tumult  of  the  organ. 

In  such  religious  aestheticisms  the  soul  of  John 
Norton  had  long  slumbered,  but  now  it  awoke  in 
remorse  and  pain,  and,  repulsing  its  habitual  exalta- 
tions as  if  they  were  sins,  he  turned  to  the  primal 


JOHN  NORTON.  299 

idea  of  the  vileness  of  this  life,  and  its  sole  utility 
in  enabling  man  to  gain  heaven.  A  pessimist  he 
admitted  himself  to  be  so  far  as  this  world  was  con- 
cerned. But  the  manifestations  of  modern  pessi- 
mism were  checked  by  constitutional  mysticity. 
Schopenhauer,  when  he  overstepped  the  line  ruled 
by  the  Church,  was  repulsed.  From  him  John  Nor- 
ton's faith  had  suffered  nothing;  the  severest  and 
most  violent  shocks  had  come  from  another  side  —  a 
side  which  none  would  guess,  so  complex  and  contra- 
dictory are  the  involutions  of  the  human  brain. 
Hellenism,  Greek  culture  and  ideal ;  academic 
groves ;  young  disciples,  Plato  and  Socrates,  the 
august  nakedness  of  the  Gods  were  equal,  or  almost 
equal,  in  his  mind  with  the  lacerated  bodies  of 
meagre  saints  ;  and  his  heart  wavered  between  the 
temple  of  simple  lines  and  the  cathedral  of  a  thou- 
sand arches.  Once  there  had  been  a  sharp  struggle, 
but  Christ,  not  Apollo,  had  been  the  victor,  and  the 
great  cross  in  the  bedroom  of  Stanton  College  over- 
shadowed the  beautiful  slim  body  in  which  Divinity 
seemed  to  circulate  like  blood ;  and  this  photograph 
was  all  that  now  remained  of  much  youthful  anguish 
and  much  temptation. 

A  fact  to  note  is  that  his  sense  of  reality  had 
always  remained  in  a  rudimentary  state ;  it  was,  as 
it  were,  diffused  over  the  world  and  mankind.     For 


3CX)  CELIBATES. 

instance,  his  belief  in  the  misery  and  degradation 
of  earthly  life,  and  the  natural  bestiality  of  man, 
was  incurable ;  but  of  this  or  that  individual  he 
had  no  opinion ;  he  was  to  John  Norton  a  blank 
sheet  of  paper,  to  which  he  could  not  affix  even  a 
title.  His  childhood  had  been  one  of  tumult  and 
sorrow ;  the  different  and  dissident  ideals  growing 
up  in  his  heart  and  striving  for  the  mastery,  had 
torn  and  tortured  him,  and  he  had  long  lain  as 
upon  a  mental  rack.  Ignorance  of  the  material 
laws  of  existence  had  extended  even  into  his  six- 
teenth year,  and  when,  bit  by  bit,  the  veil  fell, 
and  he  understood,  he  was  filled  with  loathing  of 
life  and  mad  desire  to  wash  himself  free  of  its 
stain ;  and  it  was  this  very  hatred  of  natural 
flesh  that  had  precipitated  a  perilous  worship  of 
deified  flesh.  But  the  Gothic  cathedral  had  inter- 
vened ;  he  had  been  taken  by  the  beauty  of  its 
architecture  and  the  beauty  of  its  Gregorian  chant. 
But  now  he  realised  —  if  not  in  all  its  truth,  at 
least  in  part  —  that  his  love  of  God  had  only  taken 
the  form  of  a  gratification  of  the  senses,  a  sensu- 
ality higher  but  as  intense  as  those  which  he  so 
much  reproved.  His  life  had  been  but  a  sin,  an 
abomination.  And  as  a  woman  rising  from  a  bed 
of  small-pox  shrinks  from  destroying  the  fair 
remembrance  of   her  face   by  pursuing  the  traces 


JOHN  NORTON.  3OI 

of  the  disease  through  every  feature,  he  hid  his 
face  in  his  hands  and  called  for  forgiveness  —  for 
escape  from  the  endless  record  of  his  conscience. 
He  saw  the  Hell  which  awaits  him  who  blas- 
phemes. To  the  verge  of  that  Hell  he  had 
drifted.  .  .  .  He  pictured  himself  lost  in  eternal 
torment.  The  Christ  he  saw  had  grown  pitiless. 
He  saw  Christ  standing  in  judgment  amid  a  white 
million  of  youths.  .  .  . 

Too  weak  to  think  clearly,  he  sat  dreaming. 
The  blazing  fire  decorated  the  darkness,  and  the 
twilight  shed  upon  curtains  purfled  with  birds  and 
petals.  He  sat,  his  head  resting  on  his  large, 
strong  fingers,  pining  for  sharp-edged  mediaeval 
tables  and  antique  lamps.  The  soft,  diffused  light 
of  the  paper-shaded  lamp  jarred  his  intimate  sense 
of  things.  However  dim  the  light  of  his  antique 
lamps,  their  beautiful  shapes  were  always  an  admo- 
nition, and  took  his  thoughts  back  to  the  age  he 
loved — an  age  of  temples  and  disciples.  Recol- 
lection of  Plato  floated  upon  his  weak  brain,  and 
he  remembered  that  the  great  philosopher  had 
said  that  there  were  men  who  were  half  women, 
and  that  these  men  must  perforce  delight  in  the 
society  of  women.  That  there  were  men  too  who 
were  wholly   men,   and   that    these    perforce   could 


302  CELIBATES. 

find  neither  pleasure  nor  interest  away  from  their 
own  sex.  He  had  always  felt  himself  to  be  wholly 
male,  and  this  was  why  the  present  age,  so  essen- 
tially the  age  of  women,  was  repellent  to  him. 

His  thoughts  floated  from  Greece  to  Palestine, 
and  looking  into  the  blaze  he  saw  himself  bearing 
the  banner  of  the  Cross  into  the  land  of  the  infidel, 
fighting  with  lance  and  sword  for  the  Sepulchre. 
He  saw  the  Saracen,  and  trembling  with  aspiration, 
he  heard  the  great  theme  of  salvation  to  the  Saviour 
sung  by  the  basses,  by  the  tenors,  by  the  altos  ;  it 
was  held  by  a  divine  boy's  voice  for  four  bars  high 
up  in  the  cupola,  and  the  belief  theme  in  harp 
arpeggios  rained  down  like  manna  on  the  bent  heads 
of  the  knights. 

Awaking  a  little,  his  thoughts  returned  to  the  con- 
sideration of  his  present  condition.  He  had  been  ill, 
death  had  been  by  his  bedside,  and  in  that  awful 
moment  he  had  blasphemed.  He  could  conceive 
nothing  more  terrible,  and  he  thanked  God  for  his 
great  mercy.  If  worldly  life  was  a  peril  he  must  fly 
from  that  peril,  the  salvation  of  his  soul  must  be  his 
first  consideration.  His  thoughts  lapsed  into  dreams 
—  dreams  of  aisle  and  cloister,  arches  and  legended 
panes.  Palms  rose  in  great  curls  like  the  sky,  and 
beautiful  harmonies  of  voices  were  gathered  together, 
grouped   and   single   voices,  now  the   white  of  the 


JOHN  NORTON.  303 

treble,  now  the  purple  of  the  bass,  and  these,  the 
souls  of  the  carven  stone,  like  birds  hovering,  like 
birds  in  swift  flight,  like  birds  poising,  floated  from 
the  arches.  Then  the  organ  intoned  the  massive 
Gregorian,  and  the  chant  of  the  mass  moved  amid 
the  opulence  of  gold  vestments  ;  the  Latin  responses 
filled  the  ear ;  and  at  the  end  of  long  abstinences  the 
holy  oil  came  like  a  bliss  that  never  dies.  In  the 
ecstasy  of  ordination  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  very 
savour  and  spirit  of  God  had  descended  upon  him. 


V. 


Mrs.  Norton  flung  her  black  shawl  over  her 
shoulders,  rattled  her  keys,  and  scolded  the  ser- 
vants at  the  end  of  the  long  passage.  Kitty,  as 
she  watered  the  flowers  in  the  greenhouse,  often 
wondered  why  John  had  chosen  to  become  a  priest 
and  grieve  his  mother.  One  morning,  as  she  stood 
watching  the  springtide,  she  saw  him  walking  up 
the  drive :  the  sky  was  bright  with  summer  hours, 
and  the  beds  were  catching  flower  beneath  the 
evergreen  oaks.  She  ran  to  Mrs.  Norton,  who  was 
attending  to  the  canaries  in  the  bow-window. 

'  Look,  look,  Mrs.  Norton,  John  is  coming  up  the 
drive ;  it  is  he  —  look  ! ' 

*  John  ! '  said  Mrs.  Norton,  seeking  for  her  glasses 
nervously ;  '  yes,  so  it  is ;  let's  run  and  meet  him. 
But  no ;  let's  take  him  rather  coolly.  I  believe 
half  his  eccentricity  is  only  put  on  because  he 
wishes  to  astonish  us.  We  won't  ask  him  any 
questions  —  we'll  just  wait  and  let  him  tell  his 
own  story ' 

*  How  do  you  do,  mother  ? '  gaid  the  young  man, 

3<H 


JOHN  NORTON.  305 

kissing  Mrs.  Norton  with  less  reluctance  than  usual. 
'You  must  forgive  me  for  not  having  answered 
your  letters.  It  really  was  not  my  fault.  .  .  .  And 
how  do  you  do,  Kitty  ?  Have  you  been  keeping 
my  mother  company  ever  since }  It  is  very  good 
of  you ;  I  am  afraid  you  must  think  me  a  very 
undutiful  son.     But  what  is  the  news .' ' 

*  One  of  the  rooks  is  gone.' 

*  Is  that  all  ?  .  .  .  What  about  the  ball  at  Stey- 
ning.'     I  hear  it  was  a  great  success.' 

'Oh,  it  was  delightful.' 

*  You  must  tell  me  about  it  after  dinner.  Now  I 
must  go  round  to  the  stables  and  tell  Walls  to 
fetch  my  things  from  the  station.' 

'  Are  you  going  to  be  here  for  some  time  ? '  said 
Mrs.  Norton  with  an  indifferent  air. 

'  Yes,  I  think  so ;  that  is  to  say,  for  a  couple  of 
months — six  weeks.  I  have  some  arrangements 
to  make ;  but  I  will  speak  to  you  about  all  that 
after  dinner.' 

With  these  words  John  left  the  room,  and  he  left 
his  mother  agitated  and  frightened. 

'What  can  he  mean  by  having  arrangements  to 
make } '  she  asked.  Kitty  could  of  course  suggest 
no  explanation,  and  the  women  waited  the  pleasure 
of  the  young  man  to  speak  his  mind.  He  seemed, 
however,  in   no   hurry  to  do  so;   and   the   manner 


3o6  CELIBATES. 

in  which  he  avoided  the  subject  aggravated  his 
mother's  uneasiness.  At  last  she  said,  unable  to 
bear  the  suspense  any  longer — 

*  Have  you  had  a  quarrel  with  the  Jesuits  ? ' 

*  Not  exactly  a  quarrel,  but  the  order  is  so  en- 
tirely opposed  to  the  monastic  spirit.  What  I  mean 
is  —  well,  their  worldliness  is  repugnant  to  me  — 
fashionable  friends,  confidences,  meddling  in  family 
affairs,  dining  out,  letters  from  ladies  who  need 
consolation.  ...  I  don't  mean  anything  wrong; 
pray  don't  misunderstand  me.  I  merely  mean  to 
say  that  I  hate  their  meddling  in  family  affairs. 
Their  confessional  is  a  kind  of  marriage  bureau ; 
they  have  always  got  some  plan  on  for  marrying 
this  person  to  that,  and  I  must  say  I  hate  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  ...  If  I  were  a  priest  I  would  dis- 
dain to  .  .  .  but  perhaps  I  am  wrong  to  speak  like 
that.  Yes,  it  is  very  wrong  of  me,  and  before  .  .  . 
Kitty,  you  must  not  think  I  am  speaking  against  the 
principles  of  religion  ;  I  am  only  speaking  of  mat- 
ters of ' 

'And  have  you  given  up  your  rooms  in  Stanton 
College.?' 

*  Not  yet  —  that  is  to  say,  nothing  is  settled  defi- 
nitely ;  but  I  do  not  think  I  shall  go  back  there,  at 
least  not  to  live.' 

*  And  do  you  still  think  of  becoming  a  priest  ? ' 


JOHN  NORTON.  307 

'On  that  point  I  am  not  certain.  I  am  not  yet 
quite  sure  that  I  have  a  vocation  for  the  priesthood. 
I  would  wish  the  world  to  be  my  monastery.  Be  that 
as  it  may,  I  intend  altering  the  house  a  little  here 
and  there ;  you  know  how  repugnant  this  mock 
Italian  architecture  is  to  my  feelings.  For  the  pres- 
ent I  am  determined  only  on  a  few  alterations,  I 
have  them  all  in  my  head.  The  billiard-room,  that 
addition  of  yours,  can  be  turned  into  a  chapel.  And 
the  casements  of  the  dreadful  bow-window  might 
be  removed ;  and  instead  of  the  present  flat  roof  a 
sloping  tiled  roof  might  be  carried  up  against  the 
wall  of  the  house.  The  cloisters  would  come  at  the 
back  of  the  chapel' 

His  mother  bit  her  thin  lips,  and  her  face 
tightened  in  an  expression  of  settled  grief,  Kitty 
was  sorry  for  Mrs,  Norton,  but  Kitty  was  too  young 
to  understand,  and  her  sorrow  evaporated  in  laughter. 
She  listened  to  John's  explanations  of  the  architect- 
ural changes  as  to  a  fairy  tale.  Her  innocent  gaiety 
attracted  her  to  him ;  and  as  they  walked  about  the 
grounds  after  breakfast  he  spoke  to  her  about  pictures 
and  statues,  of  a  trip  he  intended  to  take  to  Italy  and 
Spain,  and  he  did  not  seem  to  care  to  be  reminded 
that  this  jarred  with  his  project  for  immediate  reali- 
sation of  Thornby  Priory, 

Leaning  their  backs  against  the  iron  railing  which 


308  CELIBATES. 

divided  the  greensward  from  the  park,  John  and 
Kitty  looked  at  the  house. 

'From  this  view  it  really  is  not  so  bad,  though 
the  urns  and  loggia  are  so  intolerably  out  of  keep- 
ing with  the  landscape.  But  when  I  have  made 
certain  alterations  it  will  harmonise  with  the  downs 
and  the  fiat  flowing  country,  so  English,  with  its 
barns  and  cottages  and  rich  agriculture,  and  there 
will  be  then  a  charming  recollection  of  old  Eng- 
land, the  England  of  the  monastic  ages,  before 
the  —  but  I  forgot  I  must  not  speak  to  you  on 
that  subject' 

'Do  you  think  the  house  will  look  prettier  than 
it  does  now,?  Mrs.  Norton  says  that  it  will  be 
impossible  to  alter  Italian  architecture  into  Gothic' 

'Mother  does  not  know  what  she  is  talking 
about.  I  have  it  all  down  in  my  pocket-book.  I 
have  various  plans.  ...  I  admit  it  is  not  easy, 
but  last  night  I  fancy  I  hit  on  an  idea.  I  shall  of 
course  consult  an  architect,  although  really  I  don't 
see  there  is  any  necessity  for  so  doing,  but  just  to 
be  on  the  safe  side ;  for  in  architecture  there  are 
many  practical  difficulties,  and  to  be  on  the  safe 
side  I  will  consult  an  experienced  man  regarding 
the  practical  working  out  of  my  design.  I  made 
this  drawing  last  night.'  John  produced  a  large 
pocket-book. 


JOHN  NORTON.  309 

'  But,  oh,  how  pretty !  will  it  be  really  like  that  ? ' 

'Yes,'  exclaimed  John,  delighted;  'it  will  be 
exactly  like  that.  The  billiard-room  can  be  con- 
verted into  a  chapel  by  building  a  new  high- 
pitched  roof.* 

'Oh,  John,  why  should  you  do  away  with  the 
billiard-room ;  why  shouldn't  the  monks  play  bil- 
liards ?    You  played  on  the  day  of  the  meet.' 

'  I  am  not  a  monk  yet.'  The  conversation  paused 
a  moment  and  then  John  continued,  'That  dread- 
ful addition  of  my  mother's  cannot  remain  in  its 
present  form ;  it  is  hideous,  but  it  can  be  converted 
very  easily  into  a  chapel.  It  will  not  be  difficult. 
A  high-pitched  timber  roof,  throwing  out  an  apse 
at  the  end,  and  putting  in  mullioned  and  traceried 
windows  filled  with  stained  glass.' 

'  And  the  cloister  you  are  speaking  about  —  where 
will  that  be  ? ' 

'  The  cloister  will  come  at  the  back  of  the  chapel, 
and  an  arched  and  vaulted  ambulatory  will  be  laid 
round  the  house.  Later  on  I  shall  add  a  refectory, 
and  put  a  lavatory  at  one  end  of  the  ambulatory.' 

'  But  don't  you  think,  John,  you  may  become  tired 
of  being  a  monk,  and  then  the  house  will  have  to 
be  built  back  again  .'' ' 

'  No ;  the  house  will  be  from  every  point  of  view 
a  better  house  when  my  alterations  are  carried  into 


3IO  CELIBATES. 

effect.  And  as  for  my  becoming  a  monk,  that  is 
in  the  main  an  idea  of  my  mother's.  Monastic  life, 
I  admit,  presents  great  attractions  for  me,  but  that 
does  not  mean  that  I  shall  become  a  monk.  My 
mother  does  not  understand  an  impersonal  admira- 
tion for  anything.  She  cannot  understand  that  it 
is  impossible  to  become  a  monk  unless  you  have 
a  vocation.     It  is  all  a  question  of  vocation.' 

Later  in  the  day  Mrs.  Norton  stopped  John  as 
he  was  hurrying  to  his  room.  She  was  much  ex- 
cited by  the  news  just  received  of  the  engagement 
of  one  of  the  Austin  girls.  She  approved  of  the 
match,  and  spoke  enthusiastically  of  the  girl's  beauty. 

*  I  could  never  see  it.  It  never  appealed  to  me 
in  the  least.' 

'  But  no  woman  does.  You  never  think  a  woman 
good-looking.' 

'Yes,  I  do.  But  you  never  can  understand  an 
impersonal  admiration  for  anything.  You  say  I  do 
not  appreciate  beauty  in  women  because  I  do  not 
marry.  You  say  I  am  determined  on  becoming  a 
monk,  because  I  admire  monastic  life.' 

'  But  are  you  going  to  become  a  monk } ' 

*  I  am  not  sure  that  I  should  not  prefer  the  world 
to  be  my  monastery. ' 

'  Now  you  are  talking  nonsense.' 

'Now   you  are   beginning    to    be    rude,   mother. 


JOHN  NORTON.  31I 

.  .  .  We  were  discussing  the  question  of  beauty  in 
women.' 

'  Well,  what  fault,  I  should  like  to  know,  do  you 
find  with  Lucy  .-* ' 

John  laughed,  and  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
he  said  — 

*  Her  face  is  a  pretty  oval,  but  it  conveys  nothing 
to  my  mind ;  her  eyes  are  large  and  soft,  but  there 
is  no,  no '     John  gesticulated  with  his  fingers. 

'No  what.?' 

*No  beyond.' 

'No  what.?' 

'  No  suggestiveness  in  her  face,  no  strangeness ; 
she  seems  to  me  too  much  like  a  woman.' 

'I  think  a  woman  ought  to  be  like  a  woman. 
You  would  not  like  a  man  to  be  like  a  woman,  would 
you  ? ' 

'  That's  different.  Women  are  often  beautiful, 
but  their  beauty  is  not  of  the  highest  type.  You 
admit  that  Kitty  is  a  pretty  girl.  Well,  she's  not 
nearly  so  womanly  in  face  or  figure  as  Lucy.  Her 
figure  is  slight  even  to  boyishness.  She's  like  a  little 
antique  statue  done  in  a  period  of  decadence.  She 
has  the  far-away  look  in  the  eyes  which  we  find  in 
antique  sculpture,  and  which  is  so  attractive  to  me. 
But  you  don't  understand.' 

*I  understand  very  well.     I  understand   you  far 


312  CELIBATES. 

better  than  you  think,'  Mrs.  Norton  answered 
angrily.  She  was  angered  by  what  she  deemed 
her  son's  affectations,  and  by  the  arrival  of  the 
architect  before  whom  John  was  to  lay  his  scheme 
for  the  reconstruction  of  the  house. 

Mr.  Egerton  seemed  to  think  John's  architecture 
somewhat  wild,  but  he  promised  to  see  what  could 
be  done  to  overcome  the  difficulties  he  foresaw,  and 
in  a  week  he  forwarded  John  several  drawings  for 
his  consideration.  Judged  by  comparison  with  John's 
dreams,  the  practical  architecture  of  the  experienced 
man  seemed  altogether  lacking  in  expression  and 
in  poetry  of  proportion ;  and  comparing  them  with 
his  own  cherished  project,  John  hung  over  the 
billiard-table,  where  the  drawings  were  laid  out. 

He  could  think  of  nothing  but  his  monastery ; 
his  Latin  authors  were  forgotten ;  he  drew  facades 
and  turrets  on  the  cloth  during  dinner,  and  he  went 
up  to  his  room,  not  to  bed,  but  to  reconsider  the 
difficulties  that  rendered  the  construction  of  a  central 
tower  an  impossibility. 

Once  again   he   takes   up   the   architect's   notes. 

*  The  interior  would  be  so  constructed  as  to 
make  it  impossible  to  carry  up  the  central  tower. 
The  outer  walls  would  not  be  strong  enough  to 
take  the  large  gables  and  roof.  Although  the  chapel 
could  be  done  easily ^  the  ambulatory  would  be  of  no 


JOHN  NORTON.  313 

use,   as   it  would  lead  probably  from    the    kitchen 
offices. 

'  Would  have  to  reduce  work  on  front  faqade  to 
putting  in  new  arched  entrance.  Buttresses  would 
take  the  place  of  pilasters. 

*  The  bow-window  could  remain. 

*  The  roof  to  be  heightened  somewhat.  The  front 
projection  would  throw  the  front  rooms  into  almost 
total  darkness.^ 

'But  why  not  a  light  timber  lantern  tower?' 
thought  John.  *  Yes,  that  would  get  over  the  diffi- 
culty. Now,  if  we  could  only  manage  to  keep  my 
front.  ...  If  my  design  for  the  front  cannot 
be  preserved,  I  might  as  well  abandon  the  whole 
thing!     And  then.?' 

His  face  contracted  in  an  expression  of  anger. 
He  rose  from  the  table,  and  looked  round  the  room. 
The  room  seemed  to  him  a  symbol  —  the  voluptuous 
bed,  the  corpulent  arm-chair,  the  toilet-table  shape- 
less with  muslin  —  of  the  hideous  laws  of  the  world 
and  the  flesh,  ever  at  variance  and  at  war,  and  ever 
defeating  the  indomitable  aspirations  of  the  soul. 
John  ordered  his  room  to  be  changed;  and  in  the 
face  of  much  opposition  from  his  mother,  who  de- 
clared that  he  would  never  be  able  to  sleep  there, 
and  would  lose  his  health,  he  selected  a  narrow 
room  at  the  end  of  the  passage.     He  would  have  no 


314  CELIBATES. 

caqjet.  He  placed  a  small  iron  bed  against  the 
wall ;  two  plain  chairs,  a  screen  to  keep  off  the 
draught  from  the  door,  a  small  basin-stand,  such  as 
you  might  find  in  a  ship's  cabin,  and  a  prie-dieu 
were  all  the  furniture  he  permitted  himself. 

'  Oh,  what  a  relief ! '  he  murmured.  '  Now  there 
is  line,  there  is  definite  shape.  That  formless 
upholstery  frets  my  eye  as  false  notes  grate  on  my 
ear ; '  and,  becoming  suddenly  conscious  of  the 
presence  of  God,  he  fell  on  his  knees  and  prayed. 
He  prayed  that  he  might  be  guided  aright  in  his 
undertaking,  and  that,  if  it  were  conducive  to  the 
greater  honour  and  glory  of  God,  he  might  be  per- 
mitted to  found  a  monastery,  and  that  he  might  be 
given  strength  to  surmount  all  difficulties. 


VI. 


*  Either  of  two  things  :  I  must  alter  the  archi- 
tecture of  this  house,  or  I  must  return  to  Stanton 
College.* 

*  Don't  talk  nonsense,  do  you  think  I  don't  know 
you ;  you  are  boring  yourself  because  Kitty  is 
upstairs  in  bed  and  cannot  walk  about  with  you.' , 

*  I  do  not  know  how  you  contrive,  mother,  always 
to  say  the  most  disagreeable  things ;  the  marvel- 
lous way  in  which  you  pitch  on  what  will,  at  the 
moment,  wound  me  most,  is  truly  wonderful.  I 
compliment  you  on  your  skill,  but  I  confess  I  am 
at  a  loss  to  understand  why  you  should,  as  if  by 
right,  expect  me  to  remain  here  to  serve  as  a  target 
for  the  arrows  of  your  scorn.' 

John  walked  out  of  the  room.  During  dinner 
mother  and  son  spoke  very  little,  and  he  retired 
early,  about  ten  o'clock,  to  his  room.  He  was  in 
high  dudgeon,  but  the  white  walls,  the  prie-dieu,  the 
straight,  narrow  bed,  were  pleasant  to  see.  His  room 
was  the  first  agreeable  impression  of  the  day.  He 
picked  up  a  drawing  from  the  table,  it  seemed  to  him 

315 


3l6  CELIBATES. 

awkward  and  slovenly.  He  sharpened  his  pencil, 
cleared  his  crow-quill  pens,  got  out  his  tracing-paper, 
and  sat  down  to  execute  a  better.  But  he  had  not 
finished  his  outline  sketch  before  he  leaned  back  in 
his  chair,  and  as  if  overcome  by  the  insidious  warmth 
of  the  fire,  lapsed  into  firelight  attitudes  and  medi- 
tations. 

Nibbling  his  pencil's  point,  he  looked  into  the 
glare.  Wavering  light  and  wavering  shade  flickered 
fast  over  the  Roman  profile,  flowed  fitfully  —  fitfully 
as  his  thoughts.  Now  his  thoughts  pursued  archi- 
tectural dreams,  and  now  he  thought  of  himself,  of 
his  unhappy  youth,  of  how  he  had  been  misunder- 
stood, of  his  solitary  life ;  a  bitter,  unsatisfactory  life, 
and  yet  a  life  not  wanting  in  an  ideal  —  a  glorious 
ideal.  He  thought  how  his  projects  had  always  met 
with  failure,  with  disapproval,  above  all,  failure  .  .  . 
and  yet,  and  yet  he  felt,  he  almost  knew,  there  was 
something  great  and  noble  in  him.  His  eyes  bright- 
ened, he  slipped  into  thinking  of  schemes  for  a  mo- 
nastic life ;  and  then  he  thought  of  his  mother's  hard 
disposition  and  how  she  misunderstood  him.  What 
would  the  end  be  .-•  Would  he  succeed  in  creating 
the  monastery  he  dreamed  of  so  fondly }  To  recon- 
struct the  ascetic  life  of  the  Middle  Ages,  that  would 
be  something  worth  doing,  that  would  be  a  great 
ideal  —  that  would  make  meaning  in  his  life.     If  he 


JOHN  NORTON.  317 

failed  .  .  .  what  should  he  do  then  ?  His  life  as  it 
was,  was  unbearable  ...  he  must  come  to  terms 
with  life.  .  .  . 

That  central  tower !  how  could  he  manage  it  and 
that  built-out  front  ?  Was  it  true,  as  the  architect 
said,  that  it  would  throw  all  the  front  rooms  into 
darkness.^  Without  this  front  his  design  would  be 
worthless.  What  a  difference  it  made !  Kitty  had 
approved  of  it. 

For  a  woman  she  was  strangely  beautiful.  She 
appealed  to  him  as  no  other  woman  ever  had.  Other 
women,  with  their  gross  display  of  sex,  disgusted 
him ;  but  Kitty,  with  her  strange,  enigmatic  eyes, 
appealed  to  him  like  —  well,  like  an  antique  statuette. 

That  was  how  she  appealed  to  him  —  as  an  ex- 
quisite work  of  art.  His  mother  had  said  that  he 
found  Thornby  Place  dull  when  she  was  ill,  that  he 
missed  her,  that  —  that  it  was  because  she  was  not 
there  that  he  had  found  the  day  so  wearisome.  But 
this  was  because  his  mother  could  only  understand 
men  and  women  in  one  relation ;  she  had  no  feeling 
for  art,  for  that  remoteness  from  life  which  is  art,  and 
which  was  everything  to  him.  His  thoughts  paused, 
and  returned  slowly  to  his  architectural  projects. 
But  Kitty  was  in  them  all ;  he  saw  her  in  decora- 
tions for  the  light  timber  lantern  roof,  and  she  flitted 
through  the  ambulatory  which  was  to  be  constructed 


3l8  CELIBATES. 

at  the  back  of  the  house.  Soon  he  was  absorbed  in 
remembrance  of  her  looks  and  laughter,  of  their  long 
talks  of  the  monastery,  the  neighbours,  the  pet  rooks, 
Sammy  the  great  yellow  cat,  and  the  greenhouses. 
He  remembered  the  pleasure  he  had  taken  in  these 
conversations. 

Was  it  then  true  that  he  thought  of  her  as  men 
think  of  women,  was  there  some  alloy  of  animal 
passion  in  his  admiration  for  her  beauty  .-•  He  asked 
himself  this  question,  and  remembered  with  shame 
some  involuntary  thoughts  which  had  sprung  upon 
him,  and  which,  when  he  listened,  he  still  could  hear 
in  the  background  of  his  mind  ;  and,  listening,  he 
grew  frightened  and  fled,  like  a  lonely  traveller  from 
the  sound  of  wolves. 

Pausing  in  his  mental  flight  he  asked  himself  what 
this  must  lead  to }  To  a  coarse  affection,  to  mar- 
riage, to  children,  to  general  domesticity. 

And  contrasted  with  this  .  .  . 

The  dignified  and  grave  life  of  the  cloister,  the 
constant  sensation  of  lofty  and  elevating  thought,  a 
high  ideal,  the  communion  of  learned  men,  the  charm 
of  headship. 

Could  he  abandon  this  ?  No,  a  thousand  times 
no.  This  was  what  was  real  in  him,  .this  was  what 
was  true  to  his  nature.  The  thoughts  he  deplored 
were  accidental.     He  could  not  be  held  accountable 


JOHN  NORTON.  319 

for  them.  He  had  repulsed  them;  and  trembling 
and  pale  with  passion,  John  fell  on  his  knees  and 
prayed  for  grace.  But  prayer  was  thin  upon  his  lips, 
and  he  could  only  beg  that  the  temptation  might 
pass  from  him.  .  .  . 

*In  the  morning,'  he  said,  *I  shall  be  strong.' 


VII. 

But  if  in  the  morning  he  were  strong,  Kitty  was 
more  beautiful  than  ever. 

They  walked  towards  the  tennis  seat,  with  its  red- 
striped  awning.  They  listened  to  the  feeble  cawing 
of  young  rooks  swinging  on  the  branches.  They 
watched  the  larks  nestle  in  and  fly  out  of  the  golden 
meadow.  It  was  May-time,  and  the  air  was  bright 
with  buds  and  summer  bees.  She  was  dressed  in 
white,  and  the  shadow  of  the  straw  hat  fell  across 
her  eyes  when  she  raised  her  face.  He  was  dressed 
in  black,  and  the  clerical  frock-coat,  buttoned  by 
one  button  at  the  throat,  fell  straight. 

They  sat  under  the  red-striped  awning  of  the 
tennis  seat.  The  large  grasping  hands  holding  the 
polished  cane  contrasted  with  the  reedy,  translucent 
hands  laid  upon  the  white  folds.  The  low,  sweet 
breath  of  the  May-time  breathed  within  them,  and 
their  hearts  were  light ;  hers  was  only  conscious 
of  the  May-time,  but  his  was  awake  with  uncon- 
scious love,  and  he  yielded  to  her,  to  the  perfume 
of  the  garden,  to  the  absorbing  sweetness  of  the 
moment.     He   was   no  longer   John   Norton.     His 

320 


JOHN  NORTON.  32 1 

being  was  part  of  the  May-time  ;  it  had  gone  forth 
and  had  mingled  with  the  colour  of  the  fields  and 
sky ;  with  the  life  of  the  flowers,  with  all  vague 
scents  and  sounds. 

'How  beautiful  the  day  is,'  he  said,  speaking 
slowly.  '  Is  it  not  all  light  and  colour }  And  you, 
in  your  white  dress,  with  the  sunlight  on  your 
hair,  seem  more  blossom-like  than  any  flower.  I 
wonder  what  flower  I  should  compare  you  to  ?  Shall 
I  say  a  rose  ?  No,  not  a  rose,  nor  a  lily,  nor  a 
violet ;  you  remind  me  rather  of  a  tall,  delicate, 
pale  carnation.  .  .  .' 

'Why,  John,  I  never  heard  you  speak  like  that 
before.     I  thought  you  never  paid  compliments.' 

The  transparent  green  of  the  limes  shivered, 
the  young  rooks  cawed  feebly,  and  the  birds  flew 
out  of  and  nestled  with  amorous  wings  in  the 
golden  meadow.  Kitty  had  taken  off  her  straw 
hat,  the  sunlight  caressed  the  delicate  plenitudes 
of  the  bent  neck,  the  delicate  plenitudes  bound 
with  white  cambric,  cambric  swelling  gently  over 
the  bosom  into  the  narrow  of  the  waist,  cambric 
fluting  to  the  little  wrist,  reedy,  translucid  hands  ; 
cambric  falling  outwards,  and  flowing  like  a  great 
white  flower  over  the  greensward,  over  the  mauve 
stocking,  and  the  little  shoe  set  firmly.  The  ear 
like  a  rose  leaf ;  a  fluff  of  light  hair  trembling  on 


322  CELIBATES. 

the  curving  nape,  and  the  head  crowned  with  thick 
brown  gold.  And  her  pale  marmoreal  eyes  were 
haunted  by  a  yearning  look  which  he  had  always 
loved,  and  which  he  had  hitherto  only  found  in 
some  beautiful  relics  of  antiquity.  She  seemed  to 
him  purged,  as  a  Greek  statue,  of  all  life's  gross- 
ness ;  and  as  the  women  of  Botticelli  and  Mantegna 
she  seemed  to  him  to  live  in  a  long  afternoon  of 
unchaniging  aspiration. 

And  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  thought  of  her 
as  impersonally  as  he  thought  of  these  women, 
and  the  fact  that  she  participated  in  the  life  of 
the  flesh  neither  concerned  him  nor  did  it  matter. 
That  she  lived  in  the  flesh  instead  of  in  marble 
was  an  accident.  He  smiled  at  the  paradox,  for 
he  had  recovered  from  the  fears  of  overnight  and 
was  certain  that  even  the  longing  to  strain  her  in 
his  arms  was  only  part  of  the  impulse  which  com- 
pels our  lips  to  the  rose,  which  buries  our  hands 
in  the  earth  when  we  lie  at  length,  which  fills  our 
souls  with  longing  for  white  peaks  and  valleys 
when  the  great  clouds  tower  and  shine. 

And  that  evening,  as  he  sat  in  his  study,  his 
thoughts  suddenly  said  :  '  She  is  the  symbol  of  my 
inner  life.'  Surprised  and  perplexed,  he  sought  the 
meaning  of  the  words.  He  was  forced  to  admit  that 
her   beauty   had   penetrated   his   soul.     But   was   it 


JOHN  NORTON.  323 

not  natural  for  him  to  admire  all  beautiful  things, 
especially  things  on  a  certain  plane  of  idea?  He 
had  admired  other  women  :  in  what  then  did  his 
admiration  for  this  woman  differ  from  that,  which 
others  had  drawn  from  him  ?  In  his  admiration  for 
other  women  there  had  always  been  a  sense  of 
repulsion ;  this  feeling  of  repulsion  seemed  to  be 
absent  from  his  admiration  for  Kitty.  .  .  .  He 
hardly  perceived  any  sex  in  her ;  she  was  sexless 
as  a  work  of  art,  as  the  women  of  the  first  Italian 
painters,  as  some  Greek  statues. 

Then  by  natural  association  of  idea  his  mind  was 
carried  back  to  early  youth,  to  struggles  with 
himself,  and  to  temptations  which  he  had  conquered, 
and  the  memory  of  which  he  was  always  careful  to 
keep  out  of  mind.  In  that  critical  time  he  had 
felt  that  it  was  essential  for  him  *to  come  to 
terms  with  life.'  And  the  terms  he  had  discov- 
ered were  strictest  adhesion  to  the  rules  laid 
down  by  the  Catholic  Church  for  the  conduct 
of  life.  He  had  lived  within  these  rules  and  had 
received  peace.  Now  for  the  first  time  that  peace 
was  seriously  assailed.  His  thoughts  continued 
their  questioning,  and  he  found  himself  asking 
if  sufficient  change  had  come  into  his  nature  to 
allow  him  to  accept  marriage.  But  before  answer 
could   be   given  an   opposing  thought  asked  if  this 


324  CELIBATES. 

girl  were  more  than  a  mere  emissary  of  Satan  ;  and 
with  that  thought  all  that  was  mediaeval  in  him  arose, 

Femina  dulce  malum  paritcr  favus  atque  venerium. 

'Not  sweet  evil,'  he  said,  determined  to  outdo 
the  monk  in  denunciation,  'but  the  vilest  of  evils, 
not  honeycomb  and  venom  but  filth  and  venom. 
Though  as  fair  as  roses  the  beginning  the  end  is 
gall  and  wormwood;  heartache  and  misery  are 
the  end  of  love.  Why  then  do  we  seek  passion 
when  we  may  find  happiness  only  in  calm } ' 

He  had  known  the  truth,  as  if  by  instinct,  from 
the  first.  No  life  was  possible  for  him  except  an 
ascetic  life.  But  he  had  no  vocation  for  the 
priesthood.  True  that  in  a  moment  of  weakness, 
after  a  severe  illness,  he  had  returned  to  Stanton 
College  with  the  intention  of  taking  orders  ;  but 
with  renewal  of  health  the  truth  had  come 
home  to  him  that  he  was  as  unfitted  to  the  priest- 
hood as  he  was  for  marriage,  or  nearly  so.  The 
path  of  his  life  lay  between  the  church  and  the 
world ;  he  must  remain  in  the  world  though  he 
never  could  be  of  the  world,  he  could  only  view 
the  world  as  a  spectator,  as  a  passing  pageant  it 
interested  him  ;  and  with  art  and  literature  and 
music,  for  necessary  distraction,  and  the  fixed 
resolve  to  save  his  soul — nothing  really  mattered 
but  that  — he  hoped  to  achieve  his  destiny. 


VIII. 

'We  play  billiards  here  on  Sunday,  but  you 
would  think  it  wrong  to  do  so.' 

*  But  to-day  is   not  Sunday,' 

*No;  I  was  only  speaking  in  a  general  way. 
Yet  I  often  wonder  how  you  can  feel  satisfied 
with  the  protection  your  Church  affords  you 
against  the  miseries  and  trials  of  the  world.  A 
Protestant  may  believe  pretty  nearly  as  little  or 
as  much  as  he  likes,  whereas  in  our  Church  every- 
thing is  defined;  we  know  what  we  must  believe 
to  be  saved.  There  is  a  sense  of  security  in  the 
Catholic  Church  which  the  Protestant  has  not.' 

*  Do  you  think  so  ?  That  is  because  you  do  not 
know  our  Church,'  replied  Kitty,  who  was  a  little 
astonished  at  this  sudden  outburst,  *I  feel  quite 
happy  and  safe,  I  know  that  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  died  on  the  Cross  to  save  us,  and  we  have 
the  Bible  to  guide  us.' 

'Yes,  but  the  Bible  without  the  interpretation 
of  the  Church  is  .  .  ,  may  lead  to  error.  For 
instance.  .  .  .' 

3*5 


326  CELIBATES. 

John  stopped  abruptly.  Seized  with  a  sudden 
scruple  of  conscience,  he  asked  himself  if  he,  in 
his  own  house,  had  a  right  to  strive  to  undermine 
the  faith  of  the  daughter  of  his  own  friend. 

'Go  on,'  cried  Kitty,  laughing.  'I  know  the 
Bible  better  than  you,  and  if  I  break  down  I  will 
ask  father.'  And  as  if  to  emphasise  her  intention, 
she  hit  her  ball,  which  was  close  under  the  cushion, 
as  hard  as  she  could. 

John  hailed  the  rent  in  the  cloth  as  a  deliver- 
ance, for  in  the  discussion  as  to  how  it  could  be 
repaired  the  religious  question  was  forgotten. 

And  this  idyll  was  lived  about  the  beautiful 
Italian  house,  with  its  urns  and  pilasters  ;  through 
the  beautiful  English  park,  with  its  elms  now  with 
the  splendour  of  summer  upon  them ;  in  the 
pleasure-grounds  with  their  rosery,  and  the  foun- 
tain where  the  rose-leaves  float,  and  the  wood- 
pigeons  come  at  eventide  to  drink ;  in  the  green- 
house with  its  live  glare  of  geraniums,  where  the 
great  yellow  cat,  so  soft  and  beautiful,  springs  on 
Kitty's  shoulder,  rounds  its  back,  and,  purring, 
insists  on  caresses ;  in  the  large,  clean  stables 
where  the  horses  munch  the  corn  lazily,  and  look 
round  with  round  inquiring  eyes,  and  the  rooks 
croak  and  flutter,  and  strut  about  Kitty's  feet. 

One    morning  he   said,   as   they   went    into    the 


JOHN  NORTON.  327 

garden,  'You  must  sometimes  feel  a  little  lonely 
here  .  .  .  when  I  am  away  ...  all  alone  here 
with  mother. ' 

'  Oh  dear  no !  we  have  lots  to  do.  I  look  after 
the  pets  in  the  morning.  I  feed  the  cats  and  the 
rooks,  and  I  see  that  the  canaries  have  fresh  water 
and  seed.  And  then  the  bees  take  up  a  lot  of  our 
time.  We  have  twenty-two  hives.  Mrs.  Norton 
says  she  ought  to  make  five  pounds  a  year  on  each. 
Sometimes  we  lose  a  swarm  or  two,  and  then  Mrs. 
Norton  is  cross.  We  were  out  for  hours  with  the 
gardener  the  other  day,  but  we  could  do  no  good  ; 
we  could  not  get  them  out  of  that  elm  tree.  You 
see  that  long  branch  leaning  right  over  the  wall ; 
well,  it  was  on  that  branch  that  they  settled,  and 
no  ladder  was  tall  enough  to  reach  them  ;  and  when 
Bill  climbed  the  tree  and  shook  them  out  they 
flew  right  away  And  in  the  afternoon  we  go  out 
for  drives ;  we  pay  visits.  You  never  pay  visits ; 
you  never  go  and  call  on  your  neighbours.' 

'  Oh,  yes  I  do ;  I  went  the  other  day  to  see 
your  father.' 

*Ah  yes,  but  that  is  only  because  he  talks  to 
you  about  Latin  authors.* 

*No,  I  assure  you  it  isn't.  Once  I  have  finished 
my  book  I  shall  never  look  at  them  again.' 

*  Well,  what  will  you  do  ? ' 


328  CELIBATES. 

*  I  don't  know ;  it  depends  on  circumstances.' 

*  What  circumstances  ? '  said  Kitty,  innocently. 
The   words  'Whether  you   will  or  will  not  have 

me'  rose  to  John's  lips,  but  all  power  to  speak 
them  seemed  to  desert  him  ;  he  had  grown  suddenly 
as  weak  as  snow,  and  in  an  instant  the  occasion 
had  passed. 

On  another  occasion  they  were  walking  in  the 
park. 

*  I  never  would  have  believed,  John,  that  you 
would  care  to  go  out  for  a  walk  with  me.* 

'And  why,  Kitty.?' 

Kitty  laughed  —  her  short,  sudden  laugh  was 
strange  and  sweet,  and  John's  heart  was  beating. 

*  Well,'  she  said,  without  the  faintest  hesitation 
or  shyness,  *we  always  thought  you  hated  girls.  I 
know  I  used  to  tease  you  when  you  came  home  for 
the  first  time,  when  you  used  to  think  of  nothing 
but  the  Latin  authors.' 

*  What  do  you  mean } ' 
Kitty  laughed  again. 

*  You  promise  not  to  tell  ? ' 
'I  promise.' 

This  was  their  first  confidence. 

'You  told  your  mother  when  I  came,  when  you 
were  sitting  by  the  fire  reading,  that  the  flutter  of 
my  skirts  disturbed  you.' 


JOHN  NORTON.  329 

*No,  Kitty;  I'm  sure  you  never  disturbed  me, 
or  at  least  for  a  long  time.  I  wish  my  mother 
would  not  repeat  conversations ;   it  is  most  unfair.' 

*  Mind,  you  promised  not  to  repeat  what  I  have 
told  you.  If  you  do,  you  will  get  me  into  an  awful 
scrape.' 

*  I  promise.* 

The  conversation  came  to  a  pause.  Kitty  looked 
up ;  and,  overtaken  by  a  sudden  nervousness,  John 
said  — 

*  We  had  better  make  haste ;  the  storm  is  com- 
ing on ;  we  shall  get  wet  through.' 

And  he  made  no  further  attempt  to  screw  his 
courage  up  to  the  point  of  proposing,  but  asked 
himself  if  his  powerlessness  was  a  sign  from  God 
that  he  was  abandoning  his  true  vocation  for  a  false 
one  .-•  He  knew  that  he  would  not  propose.  If 
he  did  he  would  break  his  engagement  when  it 
came  to  the  point  of  marriage.  He  was  as  unfitted 
for  marriage  as  he  was  for  the  priesthood.  He 
had  deceived  himself  about  the  priesthood,  as  he 
was  now  deceiving  himself  about  marriage.  No, 
not  deceiving  himself,  for  at  the  bottom  of  his 
heart  he  could  hear  the  truth.  Then,  why  did  he 
continue  this,  —  it  was  no  better  than  a  comedy, 
an  unworthy  comedy,  from  which  he  did  not  seem 
to  be  able  to  disentangle  himself ;  he  could  not  say 


330  CELIBATES. 

why.  He  could  not  understand  himself ;  his  brain 
was  on  fire,  and  he  knelt  down  to  pray,  but  when 
he  prayed  the  thought  of  bringing  a  soul  home  to 
the  fold  tempted  him  like  a  star,  and  he  asked 
himself  if  Kitty  had  not,  in  some  of  their  conversa- 
tions, shown  leanings  toward  Catholicism.  If  this 
were  so  would  it  be  right  to  desert  her  in  a  critical 
moment  ? 


IX. 


He  had  not  proposed  when  Mr.  Hare  wrote  for  his 
daughter,  and  Kitty  returned  to  Henfield.  John  at 
first  thought  that  this  absence  was  the  solution  of  his 
difficulty ;  but  he  could  not  forget  her,  and  it  became 
one  of  his  pleasures  to  start  early  in  the  morning, 
and  having  spent  a  long  day  with  her,  to  return 
home  across  the  downs. 

'  What  a  beautiful  walk  you  will  have,  Mr.  Norton  ! 
But  are  you  not  tired .-'  Seven  miles  in  the  morning 
and  seven  in  the  evening ! ' 

'But  I  have  had  the  whole  day  to  rest  in.' 

'  What  a  lovely  evening !  Let's  all  walk  a  little 
way  with  him,'  said  Kitty. 

*  I  should  like  to,'  said  the  elder  Miss  Austin,  '  but 
we  promised  father  to  be  home  for  dinner.  The  one 
sure  way  of  getting  into  his  black  books  is  to  keep 
his  dinner  waiting,  and  he  wouldn't  dine  without  us.' 

'  Well,  good-bye,  dear,'  said  Kitty,  '  I  shall  walk  as 
far  as  the  burgh.' 

The  Miss  Austins  turned  into  the  trees  that 
encircled  Leywood,  Kitty  and   John  faced  the  hill, 

33» 


332  CELIBATES. 

and  ascending,  they  soon  stood,  tiny  specks  upon 
the  evening  hours. 

Speaking  of  the  Devil's  Dyke,  Kitty  said  — 

*  What !  you  mean  to  say  you  never  heard  the 
legend  ?    You,  a  Sussex  man  ! ' 

'  I  have  lived  very  little  in  Sussex,  and  I  used  to 
hate  the  place ;  I  am  only  just  beginning  to  like 
it.     But  tell  me  the  legend.' 

'  Very  well ;  let's  try  and  find  a  place  where  we 
can  sit  down.  The  grass  is  full  of  that  horrid 
prickly  gorse.' 

'  Here's  a  nice  soft  place ;  there  is  no  gorse 
here.     Now  tell  me  the  legend.' 

'You  do  astonish  me,'  said  Kitty,  seating  herself 
on  the  spot  that  had  been  chosen  for  her.  'You 
never  heard  of  the  legend  of  St.  Cuthman!' 

'Won't  you  cross  the  poor  gipsy's  palm  with  a 
bit  of  silver,  my  pretty  gentleman,  and  she'll  tell 
you  your  fortune  and  that  of  your  pretty  lady.' 

Kitty  uttered  a  startled  cry  and  turning  they 
found  themselves  facing  a  strong  black-eyed  girl. 

'What  do  you  think,  Kitty,  would  you  like  to 
have  your  fortune  told  ? ' 

Kitty  laughed.     '  It  would  be  rather  fun,'  she  said. 

And  she  listened  to  the  usual  story  of  a  hand- 
some young  gentleman  who  would  woo  her,  win 
her,  and  give  her  happiness  and  wealth. 


JOHN  NORTON.  333 

John  threw  the  girl  a  shilling.  She  withdrew. 
They  watched  her  passing  through  the  furze. 

*  What  nonsense  they  talk ;  you  don't  believe 
that  there's  anything  in  what  they  say,'  said  Kitty, 
raising  her  eyes. 

John's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her.  He  tried  to 
answer  her  question,  which  he  had  only  half  heard. 
But  he  could  not  form  an  intelligible  sentence. 
There  was  a  giddiness  in  his  brain  which  he  had 
never  felt  before ;  he  trembled,  and  the  victim  of 
an  impulse  which  forced  him  toward  her,  he  threw 
his  arms  about  her  and  kissed  her  violently. 

*0h,  don't,'  cried  the  girl,  'let  me  go  —  oh,  John, 
how  could  you,'  and  disengaging  herself  from  his 
arms  she  looked  at  him.  The  expression  of  deep  sor- 
row and  regret  on  his  face  surprised  her  more  even 
than  his  kiss.  She  said,  *  What  is  the  matter,  John  ? 
Why  did  you '     She  did  not  finish  the  sentence. 

*  Do  not  ask  me,  I  do  not  know.  I  cannot  explain 
—  a  sudden  impulse  for  which  I  am  hardly  account- 
able. You  are  so  beautiful,'  he  said,  taking  her 
hand  gently,  'that  the  temptation  to  kiss  you  —  I 
don't  know  ...  I  suppose  it  is  natural  desire  to 
kiss  what  is  beautiful.  But  you'll  forget  this,  you 
will  never  mention  it.     I  humbly  beg  your  pardon.' 

John  sat  looking  into  space,  and,  seeing  how 
troubled  he  was,  Kitty  excused  the  kiss. 


334  CELIBATES. 

'I'm  sure  I  forgive  you,  John,  There  was  no 
great  harm.  I  believe  young  men  often  kiss  girls. 
The  Austin  girls  do,  I  know,  they  have  told  me  so. 
I  shouldn't  have  cried  out  so  if  you  hadn't  taken 
me  by  surprise.  I  forgive  you,  John,  I  know  you 
didn't  mean  it,  you  meant  nothing.' 

His  face  frightened  her. 

*  You  must  never  do  so  again.  It  is  not  right ; 
but  we  have  known  each  other  always  —  I  don't 
think  it  was  a  sin.  I  don't  think  that  father  or 
Mrs.  Norton  would  think  it ' 

'  But  they  must  never  know.  You  promise  me, 
Kitty.  ...  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  what  you  have 
said  in  my  excuse.  I  daresay  the  Austin  girls  do 
kiss  young  men,  but  because  they  do  so  it  does  not 
follow  that  it  is  right.  No  girl  should  kiss  a  man 
unless  she  intends  to  marry  him.* 

'  But,'  said  Kitty,  laughing,  '  if  he  kisses  her  by 
force  what  is  she  to  do .-' ' 

For  she  failed  to  perceive  that  to  snatch  a  kiss 
was  as  important  as  John  seemed  to  think.  But 
he  told  her  that  she  must  not  laugh,  that  she  must 
try  to  forgive  him. 

'  It  is  unpardonable,'  he  said,  '  for  I  cannot  marry 
you.     We  are  not  of  the  same  religion.  .  .  .' 

'But  you  don't  want  to  marry  me,  John  —  to 
marry   just   because   you  kissed   me !     People   kiss 


JOHN  NORTON.  335 

every  year  under  the  mistletoe  but  they  don't  marry 
each  other.' 

'It  is  as  you  like,  Kitty.' 

But  forced  on  by  his  conscience,  he  said  : 

*  We  might  obtain  a  dispensation.  .  .  .  You  know 
nothing  of  our  Church ;  if  you  did,  you  might  be- 
come a  convert.  I  wish  you  would  consider  the 
question.  It  is  so  simple ;  we  surrender  our  own 
wretched  understanding,  and  are  content  to  accept 
the  Church  as  wiser  than  we.  Once  man  throws  off 
restraint  there  is  no  happiness,  there  is  only  misery. 
One  step  leads  to  another;  if  he  would  be  logical 
he  must  go  on,  and  before  long,  for  the  descent  is 
very  rapid  indeed,  he  finds  himself  in  an  abyss  of 
darkness  and  doubt,  a  terrible  abyss  indeed,  where 
nothing  exists,  and  life  has  lost  all  meaning.  The 
Reformation  was  the  thin  end  of  the  wedge,  it  was 
the  first  denial  of  authority,  and  you  see  what  it  has 
led  to  —  modern  scepticism  and  modem  pessimism.' 

'  I  don't  know  what  that  means,  but  I  heard  Mrs. 
Norton  say  you  were  a  pessimist.' 

*  I  was ;  but  I  saw  in  time  where  it  was  leading 
me,  and  I  crushed  it  out.  I  used  to  be  a  Republican 
too,  but  I  saw  what  liberty  meant,  and  what  were  its 
results,  and  I  gave  it  up.' 

*  So  you  gave  up  all  your  ideas  for  Catholi- 
cism. .  .  .' 


336  CELIBATES. 

John  hesitated,  he  seemed  a  little  startled,  but 
he  answered,  '  I  would  give  up  anything  for  my 
Church,  .  .  . ' 

*  And  did  it  cost  you  much  to  give  up  your  ideas  ? ' 

'  Yes  ;  I  have  suffered.  But  now  I  am  happy,  and 
my  happiness  would  be  complete  if  God  would  grant 
you  grace  to  believe.  .  .  . ' 

'  But  I  do  believe.  I  believe  in  our  Lord  Jesus 
who  died  to  save  us.     Is  not  that  enough  ^ ' 

There  was  no  wind  on  the  down.  And  still  as  a 
reflection  in  a  glass  the  grey  barren  land  rolled 
through  the  twilight.  Beyond  it  the  circling  sea 
and  the  girl's  figure  distinct  on  a  golden  hour.  John 
watched  a  moment,  and  then  hastened  homeward. 
He  was  overpowered  by  fear  of  the  future ;  he 
trembled  with  anticipation,  and  prayed  that  accident 
might  lead  him  out  of  the  difficulty  into  which  a 
chance  moment  had  betrayed  him. 


X. 


When  she  rose  from  the  ground  she  saw  a  tall, 
gaunt  figure  passing  away  like  a  shadow. 

'What  a  horrible  man  ...  he  attacked  me,  ill- 
treated  me  .  .  .  what  for  ? '  Her  thoughts  turned 
aside.  *  He  should  be  put  in  prison.  ...  If  father 
knew  it,  or  John  knew  it,  he  would  be  put  in  prison, 
and  for  a  very  long  time.  .  .  .  Why  did  he  attack  me  ? 
.  .  .  Perhaps  to  rob  me ;  yes,  to  rob  me,  of  course, 
to  rob  me.'  To  rob  her,  and  of  what .?  .  .  .  of  her 
watch  ;  where  was  it  ?  It  was  gone.  The  watch  was 
gone.  .  .  .  But,  had  she  lost  it  ?  Should  she  go 
back  and  see  if  she  could  find  it  ?  Oh  !  impossible  ! 
see  the  place  again  —  impossible  !  search  among  the 
gorse  —  impossible ! 

Then,  as  her  thoughts  broke  away,  she  thought  of 
how  she  had  escaped  being  murdered.  How  thank- 
ful she  ought  to  be !  But  somehow  she  was  not 
thankful.  She  was  conscious  of  a  horror  of  return- 
ing, of  returning  to  where  she  would  see  men  and 
women's  faces.  '  I  cannot  go  home,'  thought  the  girl, 
and  acting  in  direct  contradiction  to  her  thoughts, 
?  337 


338  CELIBATES. 

she  walked  forward.  Her  parasol  —  where  was  it } 
It  was  broken.  She  brushed  herself,  she  picked  bits 
of  furze  from  her  dress.  She  held  each  away  from 
her  and  let  it  drop  in  a  silly,  vacant  way,  all  the  while 
running  the  phrases  over  in  her  mind  :  *  He  threw  me 
down  and  ill-treated  me ;  my  frock  is  ruined,  what  a 
state  it  is  in  !  I  had  a  narrow  escape  of  being  mur- 
dered, I  will  tell  them  that  .  .  ,  that  will  explain 
...  I  had  a  narrow  escape  of  being  murdered.'  But 
presently  she  grew  conscious  that  these  thoughts 
were  fictitious  thoughts,  and  that  there  was  a  thought, 
a  real  thought,  lying  in  the  background  of  her  mind, 
which  she  dared  not  face ;  and  failing  to  do  so,  she 
walked  on  hurriedly,  she  almost  ran  as  if  to  force  out 
of  sight  the  thought  that  for  a  moment  threatened  to 
define  itself.  Suddenly  she  stopped ;  there  were 
some  children  playing  by  the  farm  gate.  They  did 
not  know  that  she  was  by,  and  she  listened  to  their 
childish  prattle. 


XI. 


The  front  door  was  open;  she  heard  her  father 
calling.  But  she  felt  she  could  not  see  him,  she 
must  hide  from  his  sight,  and  dashing  upstairs  she 
double-locked  her  door. 

The  sky  was  still  flushed,  there  was  light  upon  the 
sea,  but  the  room  was  dim  and  quiet.  Her  room ! 
she  had  lived  in  many  years,  had  seen  it  under  all 
aspects ;  then  why  did  she  look  with  strained  eyes  ? 
Why  did  she  shrink.^  Nothing  has  been  changed. 
There  is  her  little  narrow  bed,  and  her  little  book-case 
full  of  novels  and  prayer-books;  there  is  her  work- 
basket  by  the  fireplace,  by  the  fireplace  closed  in  with 
curtains  that  she  herself  embroidered ;  above  her 
pillow  there  is  a  crucifix;  there  are  photographs  of 
the  Miss  Austins,  and  pictures  of  pretty  children,  cut 
from  the  Christmas  numbers,  on  the  walls.  She 
started  at  the  sight  of  these  familiar  objects,  and 
trembled  in  the  room  which  she  had  thought  of  as  a 
haven  of  refuge.  Why  ?  She  didn't  know ;  some- 
thing that  is  at  once  remembrance  and  suspicion 
filled  her  mind,  and  she  asked  if  this  was  her  room  ? 

339 


340  CELIBATES. 

She  sighed,  and  approaching  her  bedside,  raised 
her  hands  to  her  neck.  It  was  the  instinctive  move- 
ment of  undressing.  But  she  did  not  unbutton  her 
collar.  Resuming  her  walk,  she  picked  up  a  blossom 
that  had  fallen  from  the  fuchsia.  She  walked  to  and 
fro.  Then  she  threw  herself  on  her  bed  and  closed 
her  eyes,  .  .  .  She  slept,  and  then  the  moonlight 
showed  her  face  convulsed.  She  is  the  victim  of  a 
dream.  Something  follows  her  —  she  knows  not 
what.  She  dare  not  look  round.  She  falls  over 
great  leaves.  She  falls  into  the  clefts  of  ruined 
tombs,  and  her  hands,  as  she  attempts  to  rise,  are 
laid  on  sleeping  snakes ;  they  turn  to  attack  her ; 
they  glide  away  and  disappear  in  moss  and  in- 
scriptions. 

Before  her  the  trees  extend  in  complex  colonnades, 
silent  ruins  are  grown  through  with  giant  roots,  and 
about  the  mysterious  entrances  of  the  crypts  there 
lingers  yet  the  odour  of  ancient  sacrifices.  The 
stem  of  a  rare  column  rises  amid  the  branches,  the 
fragment  of  an  arch  hangs  over  and  is  supported  by 
a  dismantled  tree  trunk.  And  through  the  torrid 
twilight  of  the  approaching  storm  the  cry  of  the 
hyena  is  heard.  The  claws  of  the  hyena  are  heard 
upon  the  crumbling  tombs  and  the  suffocating  girl 
strives  with  her  last  strength  to  free  herself  from  the 
thrall  of  the  great  lianas.     But  there  comes  a  hirsute 


JOHN  NORTON.  34I 

smell;  she  turns  with  terrified  eyes  to  plead,  but 
meets  only  dull,  liquorish  eyes,  and  the  breath  of  the 
obscene  animal  is  hot  on  her  face. 

She  sprang  from  her  bed.  Was  there  any  one  in 
her  room  ?  No,  only  the  moonlight.  *  But  the  for- 
est, the  wild  animal  —  was  it  then  only  a  dream  ? ' 
the  girl  thought.  *  It  was  only  a  dream,  a  horrible 
dream,  but  after  all,  only  a  dream.'  Then  a  voice 
within  her  said,  '  But  all  was  not  a  dream  —  there 
was  something  that  was  worse  than  the  dream.' 

She  walked  to  and  fro,  and  when  she  lay  down 
her  eyelids  strove  against  sleep.  But  sleep  came 
again,  and  her  dream  was  of  a  brown  and  yellow 
serpent.  She  saw  it  from  afar  rearing  its  tawny 
hide,  scenting  its  prey. 

She  takes  refuge  in  the  rosery.  How  will  she 
save  herself }  By  plucking  roses  and  building  a  wall 
between  her  and  it.  So  she  collects  huge  bouquets, 
armfuls  of  beautiful  flowers,  garlands  and  wreaths. 
The  flower-wall  rises,  and  hoping  to  combat  the  fury 
of  the  beast  with  purity,  she  goes  whither  snowy 
blossoms  bloom  in  clustering  millions.  She  gathers 
them  in  haste ;  her  arms  and  hands  stream  with 
blood,  but  she  pays  no  heed,  and  as  the  snake  sur- 
mounts one  barricade  she  builds  another.  But  the 
reptile  leans  over  the  roses.  The  long,  thin  neck  is 
upon  her ;  she  feels  the  horrid  strength  of  the  coils 


342  CELIBATES. 

as  they  curl  and  slip  about  her,  drawing  her  whole 
life  into  one  knotted  and  loathsome  embrace.  Then 
she  knows  not  how,  but  while  the  roses  fall  in  a  red 
and  white  rain  about  her  she  escapes  from  the 
stench  of  the  scaly  hide,  from  the  strength  of  the 
coils. 

And,  without  any  transition  in  place  or  time,  she 
finds  herself  listening  to  the  sound  of  rippling  water. 
There  is  an  iron  drinking-cup  close  to  her  hand. 
She  seems  to  recognise  the  spot.  It  is  Shoreham. 
There  are  the  streets  she  knows  so  well,  the  masts 
of  the  vessels,  the  downs.  But  something  darkens 
the  sunlight,  the  tawny  body  of  the  snake  oscillates, 
the  people  cry  to  her  to  escape.  She  flies  along  the 
streets,  like  the  wind  she  seems  ta  pass.  She  calls 
for  help.  Sometimes  the  crowds  are  stationary,  as  if 
frozen  into  stone,  sometimes  they  follow  the  snake 
and  attack  it  with  sticks  and  knives.  One  man  with 
colossal  shoulders  wields  a  great  sabre ;  it  flashes 
about  him  like  lightning.  Will  he  kill  it  ?  He 
turns,  chases  a  dog,  and  disappears.  The  people  too 
have  disappeared.  She  is  now  flying  along  a  wild 
plain  covered  with  coarse  grass  and  wild  poppies. 
The  snake  is  near  her,  and  there  is  no  one  to  whom 
she  can  call  for  help.  But  the  sea  is  in  front  of  her. 
She  will  escape  down  the  rocks  —  there  is  still  a 
chance !      The  descent   is  sheer,  but   somehow  she 


JOHN  NORTON.  343 

retains  foothold.  Then  the  snake  drops  —  she  feels 
its  weight  upon  her,  and  with  a  shriek  she  awakes. 

The  moon  hung  over  the  sea,  the  sea  flowed  with 
silver,  the  world  was  as  chill  as  an  icicle. 

*  The  roses,  the  snake,  the  cliff's  edge,  was  it  then 
only  a  dream  ? '  the  girl  thought.  '  It  was  only  a 
dream,  a  terrible  dream,  but  after  all  only  a  dream  ! ' 
Then  a  voice  within  her  said,  '  But  all  was  not  a 
dream  —  there  was  something  that  was  worse  than 
the  dream.' 

She  uttered  a  low  cry  —  she  moaned.  She  drew 
herself  up  on  her  bed,  and  lay  with  her  face  buried 
in  the  pillow.  Again  she  fought  against  sleep,  but 
sleep  came  again,  and  in  overpowering  dream  she  lay 
as  if  dead.  And  she  sees  herself  dead.  All  her 
friends  are  about  her  crowning  her  with  flowers, 
beautiful  garlands  of  white  roses.  They  dress  her  in 
a  long  white  robe,  white  as  the  snowiest  cloud  in 
heaven,  and  it  lies  in  long,  straight  plaits  about  her 
lim"bs,  like  the  robes  of  those  who  lie  in  marble  in 
cathedral  aisles.  It  falls  over  her  feet,  her  hands  are 
crossed  over  her  breast,  and  all  praise  in  low  but 
ardent  words  the  excessive  whiteness  of  the  garment. 
For  none  but  she  sees  that  there  is  a  black  spot 
upon  the  robe  which  they  believe  to  be  immaculate. 
She  would  warn  them  of  their  error,  but  she  cannot ; 
and  when  they  avert  their  faces  to  wipe  away  their 


344  CELIBATES. 

tears,  the  stain  might  be  easily  seen,  but  as  they  con- 
tinue their  last  offices,  folds  or  flowers  fall  over  the 
stain  and  hide  it  from  view. 

It  is  great  pain  to  her  to  find  herself  unable  to  tell 
them  of  their  error ;  for  she  well  knows  that  when 
she  is  placed  in  the  tomb,  and  the  angels  come,  that 
they  will  not  fail  to  perceive  the  stain,  and  seeing  it, 
they  will  not  fail  to  be  shocked  and  sorrowful  —  and 
seeing  it  they  will  turn  away  weeping,  saying,  *  She 
is  not  for  us,  alas !  she  is  not  for  us ! '  And  Kitty, 
who  is  conscious  of  this  fatal  oversight,  the  results 
of  which  she  so  clearly  foresees,  is  grievously 
afflicted,  and  she  makes  every  effort  to  warn  her 
friends  of  their  error.  But  there  is  one  amid  the 
mourners  who  knows  that  she  is  endeavouring  to 
tell  of  the  black  stain.  And  this  one,  whose  face 
she  cannot  readily  distinguish,  maliciously,  and  with 
diabolical  ingenuity,  withdraws  the  attention  of  the 
others,  so  that  they  do  not  see  it. 

And  so  it  befell  her  to  be  buried  in  the  stained 
robe.  And  she  is  taken  away  amid  flowers  and 
white  cloths  to  a  white  tomb,  where  incense  is 
burning,  and  where  the  walls  are  hung  with  votive 
wreaths,  and  things  commemorative  of  virginal  life. 
But  upon  all  these,  upon  the  flowers  and  images  alike, 
there  is  some  small  stain  which  none  sees  but  she 
and  the   one   in   shadow,  the  one  whose   face   she 


JOHN  NORTON.  345 

cannot  recognise.  And  although  she  is  nailed  fast 
in  her  coffin,  she  sees  these  stains  vividly,  and  the 
one  whose  face  she  cannot  recognise  sees  them  too. 
And  this  is  certain,  for  the  shadow  of  the  face  is 
stirred  by  laughter. 

The  mourners  go ;  the  evening  darkens ;  the 
wild  sunset  floats  for  a  while  through  the  western 
heavens ;  the  cemetery  becomes  a  deep  green,  and 
in  the  wind  that  blows  out  of  heaven  the  cypresses 
rock  like  things  sad  and  mute.  Then  the  blue  night 
comes  with  stars  in  her  tresses,  and  out  of  those 
stars  angels  float  softly  ;  their  white  feet  hanging  out 
of  blown  folds,  their  wings  pointing  to  the  stars. 
And  from  out  of  the  earth,  out  of  the  mist  —  but 
whence  and  how  it  is  impossible  to  say  —  there  come 
other  angels,  dark  of  hue  and  foul  smelling.  But  the 
white  angels  carry  swords,  and  they  wave  these 
swords,  and  the  scene  is  reflected  in  them  as  in  a 
mirror ;  the  dark  angels  cower  in  a  corner  of  the 
cemetery,  but  they  do  not  utterly  retire. 

The  tomb  mysteriously  opens,  and  the  white 
angels  enter  the  tomb.  And  the  coffin  is  opened 
and  the  girl  trembles  lest  the  angels  should  discover 
the  stain  she  knew  of.  But  lo !  to  her  great  joy 
they  do  not  see  it,  and  they  bear  her  away  through 
the  blue  night,  through  the  stars  of  heaven.  And 
it    is    not    until   one   whose   face    she   cannot   rec- 


346  CELIBATES. 

ognise,  and  whose  presence  among  the  angels  of 
heaven  she  cannot  comprehend,  steals  away  one 
of  the  garlands  with  which  she  is  entwined,  that 
the  fatal  stain  becomes  visible.  Then  relinquishing 
their  burden,  the  angels  break  into  song,  and  the 
song  they  sing  is  one  of  grief ;  it  travels  through  the 
spaces  of  heaven ;  she  listens  to  its  wailing  echoes 
as  she  falls  —  as  she  falls  towards  the  sea  where  the 
dark  angels  are  waiting  for  her ;  and  as  she  falls 
she  leans  with  reverted  neck  and  strives  to  see  their 
faces,  and  as  she  nears  them  she  distinguishes 
one. 

'  Save  me,  save  me ! '  she  cried ;  and,  bewildered 
and  dazed  with  the  dream,  she  stared  on  the  room, 
now  chill  with  summer  dawn.  Again  she  murmured, 
'  It  was  only  a  dream,  it  was  only  a  dream ; '  again  a 
sort  of  presentiment  of  happiness  spread  like  light 
through  her  mind,  and  again  the  voice  within  her 
said,  '  But  all  was  not  a  dream  —  there  was  some- 
thing that  was  worse  than  the  dream.'  And  with 
despair  in  her  heart  she  sat  watching  the  cold  sky 
turn  to  blue,  the  delicate,  bright  blue  of  morning, 
and  the  garden  grow  into  yellow  and  purple  and 
red. 

She  did  not  weep,  nor  did  she  moan.  She  sat 
thinking.  She  dwelt  on  the  remembrance  of  the 
hills  and  the  tramp  with  strange   persistency,  and 


JOHN  NORTON.  347 

yet  no  more  now  than  before  did  she  attempt  to 
come  to  conclusions  with  her  thought ;  it  was  vague, 
she  would  not  define  it ;  she  brooded  over  it  sullenly 
and  obtusely.  Sometimes  her  thoughts  slipped  away 
from  it,  but  with  each  returning  a  fresh  stage  was 
marked  in  the  progress  of  her  nervous  despair. 

And  so  the  hours  went  by.  At  eight  o'clock 
the  maid  knocked  at  the  door.  Kitty  opened  it 
mechanically,  and  she  fell  into  the  woman's  arms, 
weeping,  sobbing.  The  sight  of  the  female  face 
brought  relief ;  it  interrupted  the  jarred  and 
strained  sense  of  the  horrible ;  the  secret  affini- 
ties of  sex  quickened  within  her.  The  woman's 
presence  filled  Kitty  with  the  feelings  that  the 
harmlessness  of  a  lamb  or  a  soft  bird  inspires. 


XII. 


'But  what  is  it,  Miss,  what  is  it?  Are  you  ill? 
Why,  Miss,  you  haven't  taken  your  things  off; 
you  haven't  been  to  bed ! ' 

'  No ;  I  lay  down.  ...  I  have  had  frightful 
dreams  —  that  is  all.' 

'  But  you  must  be  ill.  Miss ;  you  look  dreadful, 
Miss.  Shall  I  tell  Mr.  Hare?  Perhaps  the  doctor 
had  better  be  sent  for.' 

'  No,  no ;  pray  say  nothing  about  me.  Tell  my 
father  that  I  did  not  sleep,  that  I  am  going  to  lie 
down  for  a  little  while,  that  he  is  not  to  expect 
me  for  breakfast.' 

•I  really  think.  Miss,  that  it  would  be  as  well 
for  you  to  see  the  doctor.' 

'  No,  no,  no.  I  am  going  to  lie  down,  and  I  am 
not  to  be  disturbed.' 

•Shall  I  fill  the  bath,  Miss?  Shall  I  leave  the 
hot  water  here,  Miss?' 

'Bath  .  .  ,  hot  water  .  .  .*  Kitty  repeated  the 
words  over  as  if  she  were  striving  to  grasp  a  mean- 
ing, but  which  eluded  her. 

348 


JOHN  NORTON.  349 

Soon  after  the  maid  returned  with  a  tray.  The 
trivial  jingle  of  the  cups  and  plates  was  another 
suffering  added  to  the  ever-increasing  stress  of  mind. 
Her  dress  was  torn,  it  was  muddy,  there  were  bits 
of  furze  sticking  to  it.  She  picked  these  off;  and 
as  she  did  so,  accurate  remembrance  and  simple 
recollection  of  facts  returned  to  her,  and  the  succes- 
sion was  so  complete  that  the  effect  was  equivalent 
to  a  re-enduring  of  the  crime,  and  with  a  fore- 
knowledge of  it,  as  if  to  sharpen  its  horror  and 
increase  th^  sense  of  the  pollution.  The  vague 
hills,  the  vague  sea,  the  sweet  glow  of  evening  — 
she  saw  it  all  again.  And  as  if  afraid  that  her  brain, 
now  strained  like  a  body  on  the  rack,  would  suddenly 
snap,  she  threw  up  her  arms,  and  began  to  take  off 
her  dress,  as  if  she  would  hush  thought  in  abrupt 
movements.  In  a  moment  she  was  in  stays  and 
petticoat.  The  delicate  and  almost  girlish  arms 
were  disfigured  by  great  bruises.  Great  black  and 
blue  stains  were  spreading  through  the  skin. 

Kitty  lifted  up  her  arm ;  she  looked  at  it  in  sur- 
prise; then  in  horror  she  rushed  to  the  door  where 
her  dressing-gown  was  hanging,  and  wrapped  her- 
self in  it  tightly,  hid  herself  in  it  so  that  no  bit  of 
her  flesh  could  be  seen. 


XIII. 

The  day  grew  into  afternoon.  She  awoke  from  a 
dreamless  sleep  of  about  an  hour,  and,  still  under  its 
soothing  influence,  she  pinned  up  her  hair,  settled 
the  ribbons  of  her  dressing-gown,  and  went  down- 
stairs. She  found  her  father  and  John  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

'  Oh,  here  is  Kitty ! '  they  exclaimed. 

'  But  what  is  the  matter,  dear  ?  Why  are  you  not 
dressed  ? '  said  Mr.  Hare. 

*  But  what  is  the  matter  ?  .  .  .  Are  you  ill  ?  *  said 
John,  and  he  extended  his  hand. 

'No,  no,  'tis  nothing,'  she  replied,  and  avoiding 
the  outstretched  hand  with  a  shudder,  she  took  the 
seat  furthest  away  from  her  father  and  lover 

They  looked  at  her  in  amazement,  and  she  at 
them  in  fear  and  trembling.  She  was  conscious  of 
two  very  distinct  sensations  —  one  the  result  of 
reason,  the  other  of  madness.  She  was  not  igno- 
rant of  the  causes  of  each,  although  she  was  power- 
less to  repress  one  in  favour  of  the  other.  She 
knew  she  was  looking  at  and  talking  to  her  dear, 

350 


JOHN  NORTON.  35 1 

kind  father,  and  that  the  young  man  sitting  next 
him  was  John  Norton,  the  son  of  her  dear  friend, 
Mrs.  Norton ;  she  knew  he  was  the  young  man 
who  loved  her,  and  whom  she  was  going  to  marry. 
At  the  same  time  she  seemed  to  see  that  her 
father's  kind,  benign  countenance  was  not  a  real 
face,  but  a  mask  which  he  wore  over  another  face, 
and  which,  should  the  mask  slip  —  and  she  prayed 
that  it  might  not  — would  prove  as  horrible  and 
revolting  as 

But  the  mask  that  John  wore  was  as  nothing — 
it  was  the  veriest  make-believe.  And  she  could  not 
but  doubt  now  but  that  the  face  she  had  known  him 
so  long  by  was  a  fictitious  face,  and  as  the  hallucina- 
tion strengthened,  she  saw  his  large  mild  eyes  grow 
small,  and  that  vague,  dreamy  look  turn  to  the  dull, 
liquorish  look,  the  chin  came  forward,  the  brows  con- 
tracted .  .  .  the  large  sinewy  hands  were,  oh,  so 
like !  Then  reason  asserted  itself ;  the  vision  van- 
ished, and  she  saw  John  Norton  as  she  had  always 
seen  him 

But  was  she  sure  that  she  did.''  Yes,  yes  —  but 
her  head  seemed  to  be  growing  lighter,  and  she  did 
not  appear  to  be  able  to  judge  things  exactly  as  she 
should ,  a  sort  of  new  world  seemed  to  be  slipping 
like  a  painted  veil  between  her  and  the  old. 

John  and  Mr.  Hare  looked  at  her. 


352  CELIBATES. 

John  at  length  rose,  and  he  said,  *  My  dear  Kitty, 
I  am  afraid  you  are  not  well.  .  .  ,' 

She  strove  to  allow  him  to  take  her  hand,  but  she 
could  not  overcome  the  instinctive  feeling  which 
caused  her  to  shrink  from  him. 

'  Don't  come  near  me  —  I  cannot  bear  it ! '  she 
cried;  'don't  come  near  me,  I  beg  of  you.' 

More  than  this  she  could  not  do,  and  giving  way 
utterly,  she  shrieked  and  rushed  from  the  room. 
She  rushed  upstairs.  She  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor  listening  to  the  silence,  her  thoughts  fall- 
ing about  her  like  shaken  leaves.  It  was  as  if  a 
thunderbolt  had  destroyed  the  world,  and  left  her 
alone  in  a  desert.  The  furniture  of  the  room,  the 
bed,  the  chairs,  the  books  she  loved,  seemed  to  have 
become  as  grains  of  sand,  and  she  forgot  all  connec- 
tion between  them  and  herself.  She  pressed  her 
hands  to  her  forehead,  and  strove  to  separate  the 
horror  that  crowded  upon  her.  But  all  was  now 
one  horror  —  the  lonely  hills  were  in  the  room,  the 
grey  sky,  the  green  furze,  the  tramp ;  she  was  again 
fighting  furiously  with  him ;  and  her  lover  and  her 
father  and  all  sense  of  the  world's  life  grew  dark  in 
the  storm  of  madness. 

A  step  was  heard  on  the  stairs ;  her  quick  ears 
caught  the  sound,  and  she  rushed  to  the  door  to  lock 
it.     But  she  was  too  late.     John  held  it  fast. 


JOHN  NORTON.  353 

*  Kitty,  Kitty,'  he  cried,  'for  God's  sake,  tell  me 
what  is  the  matter  ? ' 

*  Save  me !  save  me  ! '  she  cried,  and  she  forced 
the  door  against  him  with  her  whole  strength.  He 
was,  however,  determined  on  questioning  her,  on  see- 
ing her,  and  he  passed  his  head  and  shoulders  into 
the  room. 

'  Save  me,  save  me !  help,  help ! '  she  cried, 
retreating  from  him. 

'Kitty,  Kitty,  what  do  you  mean?     Say,  say ' 

'  Save  me ;  oh  mercy,  mercy !  Let  me  go,  and  I 
will  never  say  I  saw  you,  I  will  not  tell  anything. 
Let  me  go ! '  she  cried,  retreating  towards  the 
window. 

'For  heaven's  sake,  Kitty,  take  care  —  the  win- 
dow, the  window ! ' 

But  Kitty  heard  nothing,  knew  nothing,  was 
conscious  of  nothing  but  a  mad  desire  to  escape. 
The  window  was  lifted  high  —  high  above  her  head, 
and  her  face  distorted  with  fear,  she  stood  amid  the 
soft  greenery  of  the  Virginia  creeper. 

'  Save  me ! '  she  cried. 

The  white  dress  passed  through  the  green  leaves, 
and  John  heard  a  dull  thud. 

2  A 


XIV. 

Mr.  Hare  stood  looking  at  his  dead  daughter; 
John  Norton  sat  by  the  window.  His  brain  was 
empty,  everything  was  far  away.  He  saw  things 
moving,  moving,  but  they  were  all  far  away.  He 
could  not  re-knit  himself  with  the  weft  of  life;  the 
thread  that  had  made  him  part  of  it  had  been 
snapped.  He  knew  that  Kitty  had  thrown  herself 
out  of  the  window  and  was  dead.  The  word  shocked 
him,  but  there  was  no  sense  of  realisation  to  meet  it. 
She  had  walked  with  him  on  the  hills,  she  had  accom- 
panied him  as  far  as  the  burgh ;  she  had  waved  her 
hand  to  him  before  they  walked  quite  out  of  each 
other's  sight.     Now  she  was  dead. 

Had  he  loved  her  ?  Why  was  there  neither  burn- 
ing grief  nor  tears .-'  He  envied  the  hard-sobbing 
father's  grief,  the  father  who  held  his  dead  daugh- 
ter's hand,  and  showed  a  face  on  which  was  printed 
so  deeply  the  terror  of  the  soul's  emotion,  that 
John  felt  a  supernatural  awe  creep  upon  him ;  felt 
that  his  presence  was  a  sort  of  sacrilege.     He  crept 

354 


JOHN  NORTON.  355 

downstairs.  He  went  into  the  drawing-room,  and 
looked  about  for  the  place  he  had  last  seen  her  in. 

She  usually  sat  on  that  sofa;  how  often  had  he 
seen  her  sitting  there !  And  now  he  should  not 
see  her  any  more.  Only  three  days  ago  she  had 
been  sitting  in  that  basket-chair.  How  well  he 
remembered  her  words,  her  laughter!  Shadow-like 
is  human  life !  one  moment  it  is  here,  the  next  it 
is  gone.  Her  work-basket ;  the  very  ball  of  wool 
which  he  had  held  for  her  to  wind ;  the  novel 
which  she  had  lent  to  him,  and  which  he  had  for- 
gotten to  take  away.  He  would  never  read  it 
now ;  or  perhaps  he  should  read  it  in  memory  of 
her,  of  her  whom  yesterday  he  had  parted  with 
on  the  hills  —  her  little  Puritan  look,  her  external 
girlishness,  her  golden  brown  hair,  and  the  sudden 
laugh  so  characteristic  of  her.  .  .  .  She  had  lent 
him  this  book — she  who  was  now  but  clay. 

He  took  up  his  hat  and  set  forth  to  walk  home 
across  the  downs,  all  the  while  thinking,  think- 
ing over  what  had  happened.  He  had  asked  her 
to  be  his  wife.  She  had  consented,  and,  alarmed 
at  the  prospect  of  the  new  duties  he  had  con- 
tracted, he  had  returned  home.  These  newly- 
contracted  duties  had  stirred  his  being  to  its  very 
depth ;  the  chance  appearance  of  a  gipsy  girl 
(without    the   aid  of   that    circumstance   he   felt  he 


356  CELIBATES. 

would  never  have  spoken)  had  set  his  life  about 
with  endless  eventuality ;  he  could  not  see  to  the 
end ;  the  future  he  had  indefinitely  plighted,  and 
his  own  intimate  and  personal  life  had  been 
abandoned  for  ever.  He  had  exchanged  it  for  the 
life  of  the  hearth,  of  the  family ;  that  private  life 
— private,  and  yet  so  entirely  impersonal  —  which 
he  had  hitherto  loathed.  He  had  often  said  he 
had  no  pity  for  those  who  accepted  burdens  and 
then  complained  that  they  had  not  sufficient 
strength  to  carry  them.  Such  had  been  his 
theory;  he  must  now  make  his  theory  and  practice 
coincide. 

He  had  walked  up  and  down  his  study,  his 
mind  aflame ;  he  had  sat  in  his  arm-chair,  facing 
the  moonlight,  considering  a  question,  to  him  so 
important,  so  far-reaching,  that  his  mind  at  mo- 
ments seemed  as  if  like  to  snap,  to  break,  but 
which  was  accepted  by  nine-tenths  of  humanity 
without  a  second  thought,  as  lightly  as  the  most 
superficial  detail  of  daily  life.  But  how  others 
acted  was  not  his  concern  ;  he  must  consider  his 
own  competence  to  bear  the  burden — the  perilous 
burden  he  had  asked,  and  which  had  been  prom- 
ised to  him. 

He  must  not  adventure  into  a  life  he  was  not 
fitted  for;   he  must    not    wreck    another's   life;  in 


JOHN  NORTON.  357 

considering  himself  he  was  considering  her;  their 
interests  were  mutual,  they  were  identical;  there 
was  no  question  of  egotism.  But  this  marriage 
question  had  been  debated  a  thousand  times  in 
the  last  six  months;  it  had  haunted  his  thought, 
it  had  become  his  daily  companion,  his  familiar 
spirit.  Under  what  new  aspect  could  he  consider 
this  question.?  It  faced  him  always  with  the  same 
unmovable,  mysterious  eyes  in  which  he  read 
nothing,  which  told  him  nothing  of  what  he 
longed  to  know  He  only  knew  that  he  had  desired 
this  girl  as  a  wife.  A  desire  had  come  he  knew 
not  whence ;  and  he  asked  himself  if  it  were  a 
passing  weakness  of  the  flesh,  or  if  this  passion 
abided  in  him,  if  it  had  come  at  last  to  claim 
satisfaction.?  On  this  point  he  was  uncertain,  this 
was  nature's  secret. 

In  the  midst  of  his  stress  of  mind  his  eyes  had 
wandered  over  his  books;  they  had  been  caught 
by  the  colour  of  a  small  thin  volume,  and,  obey- 
ing an  instinct,  he  had  taken  the  volume  down. 
He  knew  it  well;  a  few  hundred  small  pages  con- 
taining the  wisdom  of  a  great  Greek  philosopher, 
Epictetus,  and  John  had  often  before  turned  to 
this  sage  discourse  for  relief  in  his  mental  depres- 
sions and  despair  of  life. 

'The  subject   for  the  good  and  wise  man  is  his 


358  CELIBATES. 

master  faculty,  as  the  body  is  for  the  physician 
and  the  trainer,  and  the  soil  is  the  subject  for  the 
husbandman.  And  the  work  of  the  good  and  wise 
man  is  to  use  appearances  according  to  Nature. 
For  it  is  the  nature  of  every  soul  to  consent  to  what 
is  good  and  reject  what  is  evil,  and  to  hold  back 
about  what  is  uncertain ;  and  thus  to  be  moved  to 
pursue  the  good  and  avoid  the  evil,  and  neither 
way  for  what  is  neither  good  nor  evil.' 

In  the  light  of  these  words  John's  mind  grew 
serene  as  a  landscape  on  which  the  moon  is  shining ; 
and  he  asked  himself  why  he  had  hesitated  if  mar- 
riage were  the  state  which  he  was  destined  to 
fulfil .? 

'If  a  habit  affects  us,  against  that  must  we  en- 
deavour to  find  some  remedy?  And  what  remedy 
is  to  be  found  against  a  habit  ?  The  contrary 
habit.' 

A  temptation  of  the  flesh  had  come  upon  him ; 
he  had  yielded  to  it  instead  of  opposing  it  with  the 
contrary  habit  of  chastity.  For  chastity  had  never 
aflflicted  him ;  it  had  ever  been  to  him  a  source  of 
strength  and  courage.  Chastity  had  brought  him 
peace  of  mind,  but  the  passion  to  which  he  had  in 
a  measure  yielded  had  robbed  him  of  his  peace  of 
mind,  and  had  given  him  instead  weakness,  and 
agitation  of  spirit   and  flesh.     The  last  six  months 


JOHN  NORTON.  359 

had  been  the  unhappiest  of  his  life.  Nothing  in 
this  world,  he  thought,  is  worth  our  peace  of  mind, 
and  love  robs  us  of  that,  therefore  it  must  be  mal- 
eficent. 'And  this  passion  which  has  caused  me 
so  much  trouble,  what  is  it  ?  A  passing  emotion 
of  which  I  am  ashamed,  of  which  I  would  speak 
to  no  one.  An  emotion  which  man  shares  with 
the  lowest  animals,  but  which  his  higher  nature 
teaches  him  to  check  and  subject.'  Then  he  re- 
membered that  this  emotion  might  come  upon  him 
again.  But  each  time  he  thought,  'I  shall  be  able 
to  control  it  better  than  the  last,  and  it  will  grow 
weaker  and  weaker  until  at  last  it  will  pass  and  to 
return  no  more.' 

But  he  had  proposed  to  Kitty  and  had  been 
accepted,  and  for  some  solution  of  this  material 
difficulty  he  had  to  fall  back  upon  the  argument 
that  he  had  no  right  to  wreck  another's  life,  that 
in  considering  his  interests  he  was  considering  hers. 
And  he  had  stood  in  the  dawn  light  pondering  a 
means  of  escape  from  a  position  into  which  a  chance 
circumstance  had  led  him. 

He  had  gone  to  bed  hoping  to  find  counsel  in 
the  night,  and  in  the  morning  he  had  waked  firm 
in  his  resolve,  and  had  gone  to  Shoreham  in  the 
intention  of  breaking  his  engagement.  But  in- 
stead he  had  witnessed  a  cruel  and  terrible  suicide, 


360  CELIBATES. 

the  reason  of  which  was  hidden  from  him.  Possi- 
bly none  would  ever  know  the  reason.  Perhaps 
it  were  better  so ;  the  reasons  that  prompted  sui- 
cide were  better  unrevealed.  .  .  . 

And  now,  as  he  returned  home  after  the  tragedy, 
about  midway  in  his  walk  across  the  downs,  the 
thought  came  upon  him  that  the  breaking  off  of  his 
engagement  might  have  been  sufficient  reason  in  an 
affected  mind  for  suicide.  But  this  was  not  so.  He 
knew  it  was  not  so.     He  had  been  spared  that ! 

*  She  was  here  with  me  yesterday,'  he  said.  And 
he  looked  down  the  landscape  now  wrapped  in  a 
white  mist.  The  hills  were  like  giants  sleeping, 
the  long  distance  vanished  in  mysterious  moonlight. 
He  could  see  Brighton,  nearer  was  Southwick ;  and 
further  away,  past  the  shadowy  shore,  was  Worthing. 

He  sat  down  by  the  blown  hawthorn  bush  that 
stands  by  the  burgh.  A  ship  sailed  across  the  rays 
of  the  moon,  and  he  said  — 

*  Illusion,  illusion !  so  is  it  always  with  him  who 
places  his  trust  in  life.  Ah,  life,  life,  what  hast  thou 
for  giving  save  deceptions  ?  Why  did  I  leave  my  life 
of  contemplation  and  prayer  to  enter  into  that  of 
desire.'  Did  I  not  know  that  there  was  no  happi- 
ness save  in  calm  and  contemplation,  and  foolish  is 
he  who  places  his  happiness  in  the  things  of  this 
world.?' 


JOHN  NORTON.  361 

But  what  had  befallen  her  ?  She  was  mad  when 
she  threw  herself  out  of  the  window  to  escape  from 
him.  But  how  had  she  become  mad  ?  Yesterday 
he  had  looked  back  and  had  seen  her  walking  away 
and  waving  her  parasol,  a  slight  happy  figure  on  the 
gold-tinted  sky.  What  had  happened  ?  By  what 
strange  alienation  of  the  brain,  by  what  sudden  snap- 
ping of  the  sense  had  madness  come.?  Something 
must  have  happened.  Did  madness  fall  like  that  ? 
like  a  bolt  from  the  blue.  If  so  she  must  have  always 
been  mad,  and  walking  home  the  slight  thread  of 
sense  half  worn  through  had  suddenly  snapped.  He 
knew  that  she  liked  him.  Had  she  guessed  that 
when  it  came  to  the  point  that  he  would  not,  that  he 
might  not  have  been  able  to  marry  her }  If  so,  he 
was  in  a  measure  responsible.  Ah,  why  had  he  vent- 
ured upon  a  path  which  he  must  have  known  he  was 
not  fitted  to  walk  in  ? 


XV. 


Next  morning  John  and  Mrs.  Norton  drove  to  the 
Rectory,  and  without  asking  for  Mr.  Hare,  they  went 
to  her  room.  The  windows  were  open  ;  Annie  and 
Mary  Austin  sat  by  the  bedside  watching.  The 
blood  had  been  washed  out  of  the  beautiful  hair,  and 
she  lay  very  white  and  fair  amid  the  roses  her  friends 
had  brought  her.  She  lay  as  she  had  lain  in  one  of 
her  terrible  dreams — quite  still,  the  slender  body 
covered  by  a  sheet.  From  the  feet  the  linen  curved 
and  marked  the  inflections  of  the  knees ;  there  were 
long  flowing  folds,  low-lying  like  the  wash  of  retir- 
ing water.  And  beautiful  indeed  were  the  rounded 
shoulders,  the  neck,  the  calm  and  bloodless  face,  the 
little  nose,  and  the  drawing  of  the  nostrils,  the  ex- 
traordinary waxen  pallor,  the  eyelids  laid  like  rose- 
leaves  upon  the  eyes  that  death  has  closed  for  ever. 
An  Ascension  lily  lay  within  the  arm,  in  the  pale 
hand. 

Candles  were  burning,  and  the  soft  smell  of  wax 
mixed  with  the  perfume  of  the  roses.  For  there 
were  roses  everywhere  —  great  snowy  bouquets  and 

36a 


JOHN  NORTON.  363 

long  lines  of  scattered  blossoms,  and  single  roses 
there  and  here,  and  the  petals  falling  were  as  tears 
shed  for  the  beautiful  dead,  and  the  white  flowerage 
vied  with  the  pallor  and  the  immaculate  stillness  of 
the  dead. 

When  they  next  saw  her  she  was  in  her  coffin. 
It  was  almost  full  of  white  blossoms  —  jasmine, 
Eucharis  lilies,  white  roses,  and  in  the  midst  of  the 
flowers  the  hands  lay  folded,  and  the  face  was  veiled 
with  some  delicate,  filmy  handkerchief. 

For  the  funeral  there  were  crosses  and  wreaths 
of  white  flowers,  roses,  and  stephanotis.  And  the 
Austin  girls  and  their  cousins,  who  had  come  from 
Brighton  and  Worthing,  carried  loose  flowers.  Down 
the  short  drive,  through  the  iron  gate,  through  the 
farm  gate,  the  bearers  staggering  a  little  under  the 
weight  of  lead,  the  little  cortege  passed  two  by  two. 
A  broken-hearted  lover,  a  grief-stricken  father,  and 
a  dozen  sweet  girls,  their  eyes  and  cheeks  streaming 
with  tears.  Kitty,  their  girl  friend,  was  dead.  The 
word  *  dead  '  rang  in  their  hearts  in  answer  to  the 
mournful  tolling  of  the  bell.  The  little  by-way  along 
which  they  went,  the  little  green  path  leading  over 
the  hill,  was  strewn  with  blossoms  fallen  from  the 
bier  and  the  fingers  of  the  weeping  girls. 

The  old  church  was  all  in  white ;  great  lilies  in 
vases,  wreaths  of  stephanotis ;  and,  above  all,  roses 


364  CELIBATES. 

—  great  garlands  of  white  roses  had  been  woven, 
and  they  hung  along  and  across.  A  blossom  fell,  a 
sob  sounded  in  the  stillness.  An  hour  of  roses,  an 
hour  of  sorrow,  and  the  coffin  sank  out  of  sight, 
a  snow-drift  of  delicate  bloom  descended  into  the 
earth. 


XVI. 

John  wandered  through  the  green  woods  and 
fields  into  the  town.  He  stood  by  the  railway  gates. 
He  saw  the  people  coming  and  going  in  and  out  of 
the  public-houses;  and  he  watched  the  trains  that 
whizzed  past. 

A  train  stopped.  He  took  a  ticket  and  went  to 
Brighton. 

He  walked  through  the  southern  sunlight  of  the 
town.  The  brown  sails  of  the  fishing-boats  waved 
in  translucid  green  ;  and  the  white  field  of  the  sheer 
cliff,  and  all  the  roofs,  gables,  spires,  balconies,  and 
the  green  of  the  verandahs  were  exquisitely  indi- 
cated and  elusive  in  the  bright  air ;  and  the  beach 
was  loud  with  acrobats  and  comic  minstrels,  and 
nurse-maids  lay  on  the  pebbles  reading  novels,  chil- 
dren with  their  clothes  tied  tightly  about  them  were 
busy  building  sand  castles. 

But  he  saw  not  these  things ;  on  his  mind  was 
engraved  a  little  country  cemetery  —  graves,  yews,  a 
square,  impressive  spire.  He  heard  not  the  laughter 
and  the  chatter  of  the  beach,  but  the  terrible  words : 

365 


366  CELIBATES. 

Earth  to  earthy  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust,  and  the 
dread,  responsive  rattle  given  back  by  the  coffin  lid. 
'And  these,'  his  soul  cried,  'are  the  true  realities, 
death,  and  after  death  Heaven  or  Hell ! ' 

Then  he  wondered  at  the  fate  that  had  led  him 
from  his  calm  student  life.  .  .  .  He  had  come  to 
Thornby  Place  with  the  intention  of  founding  a 
monastery ;  instead,  he  had  fallen  in  love  (the  word 
shocked  him),  and  he  asked  himself  if  he  had  ever 
thought  of  her  more  as  a  wife  than  as  a  sister ;  if  he 
could  have  been  her  husband.^  He  feared  that  he 
had  adventured  perilously  near  to  a  life  of  which 
he  could  nowise  sustain  or  fulfil,  to  a  life  for  which 
he  knew  he  was  nowise  suited,  and  which  might 
have  lost  him  his  soul. 

He  never  could  have  married  her  —  no,  not  when 
it  came  to  the  point.  He  thought  of  the  wedding- 
breakfast,  the  cake,  the  speeches,  the  congratula- 
tions, and  of  the  woman  with  whom  he  would  have 
gone  away,  of  the  honeymoon,  of  the  bridal  cham- 
ber !  He  knew  now  that  he  could  not  have  fulfilled 
the  life  of  marriage.  If  those  things  had  happened 
he  would  have  had  to  tell  her  —  ah !  when  it  was  too 
late  —  that  he  was  mistaken,  that  he  could  not,  in 
any  real  sense  of  the  word,  be  her  husband.  They 
could  not  have  lived  together.  They  would  have 
had  to  part.     His  life  and  hers  would  have  been 


JOHN  NORTON.  367 

irretrievably  ruined,  and  then  ?  John  remembered 
the  story  of  Abelard  and  Heloise.  A  new  Abelard 
—  a  new  Heloise  ! 

The  romance  of  the  idea  interested  him.  Then 
returning  suddenly  to  reality,  he  asked  himself 
what  had  happened  to  Kitty  —  what  was  the  cause 
of  her  madness  ?  Something  had  occurred.  Once 
again,  as  he  remembered  the  blithe  innocence  of 
her  smiling  eyes  when  they  parted  on  the  hill, 
and  he  recalled  with  terror  the  trembling,  forlorn, 
half-crazy  girl  that  had  sat  opposite  him  in  the  draw- 
ing-room next  day.  He  remembered  the  twitch  of 
her  lips,  the  averted  eyes,  and  the  look  of  mad 
fear  that  had  crept  over  her  face,  her  flight  from 
him,  her  cries  for  help,  and  her  desperate  escape 
through  the  window.  His  thoughts  paused,  and 
then,  like  a  bolt  from  the  blue,  a  thought  fell 
into  his  mind.  *  No,'  he  cried,  'not  that.'  He 
tried  to  shake  himself  free  from  the  thought ;  it 
was  not  to  be  shaken  off.  That  was  the  expla- 
nation. It  could  only  be  that  —  ah!  it  was  that, 
that,  and  nothing  but  that. 

And  as  he  viewed  the  delicate,  elusive  exter- 
nality of  the  southern  town,  he  remembered  that 
he  had  kissed  her  —  he  had  kissed  her  by  force ! 
'My  God!  then  the  difference  between  us  is  only 
one  of  degree,  and  the  vilest  humanity  claims  kin- 


368  CELIBATES. 

ship  of  instinct  with  me ! '  He  clasped  his  hands 
across  his  eyes,  and  feeling  himself  on  the  brink  of 
madness,  he  cried  out  to  God  to  save  him ;  and 
he  longed  to  speak  the  words  that  would  take  him 
from  the  world.  Life  was  not  for  him.  He  had 
learnt  his  lesson.  Thomby  Place  should  soon  be 
Thomby  Abbey,  and  in  the  divine  consolation  of 
religion  John  Norton  hoped  to  find  escape  from 
the  ignominy  of  life. 


AGNES   LAHENS. 


a  B 


AGNES    LAHENS. 
I. 

A  GREY,  winter  morning  filtered  through  lace 
curtains  into  drawing-rooms  typical  of  a  fashionable 
London  neighbourhood  and  a  moderate  income. 
There  was  neither  excess  of  porcelain,  nor  of  small 
tables,  nor  of  screens.  Two  large  vases  hinted  at 
some  vulgarity  of  taste ;  a  grand  piano  in  the  back 
room  suggested  a  love  of  music,  and  Mrs.  Lahens 
had  but  to  sing  a  few  notes  to  leave  no  doubt  that 
she  had  bestowed  much  care  on  the  cultivation  of 
her  voice.  But  method  only  disguised  its  cracks 
and  thinness  as  powder  and  rouge  did  the  fading 
and  withering  of  her  skin.     She  was  like  her  voice. 

Lord  Chad  wick  stood  behind  her,  following  the 
music  bar  by  bar,  and  with  an  interest  and  a  pleas- 
ure that  did  not  concord  with  his  appearance.  For 
there  was  nothing  in  his  appearance  to  indicate 
that  his  intelligence  was  on  a  higher  plane  than 
that  of  the  mess-room.  His  appearance  seemed 
to  fluctuate  between   the  mess-room   and   the  com- 

37> 


372  CELIBATES. 

pany  promoter's  office.  He  was  a  good-looking 
solicitor,  he  was  a  good-looking  officer;  the  eyes 
were  attractive ;  the  nose  was  too  large,  but  it  was 
well-shaped ;  a  heavy  military  moustache  curled  over 
his  cheeks,  and,  as  he  stood  nodding  his  head,  de- 
lighted with  the  music,  the  seeming  commonness 
of  his  appearance  wore  away. 

Her  song  finished,  Mrs.  Lahens  got  up  from  the 
piano.  She  was  tall  and  well-made ;  perhaps  too 
full  in  the  bosom,  perhaps  too  wide  in  the  hips, 
and  perhaps  the  smallness  of  the  waist  was  owing 
to  her  stays.  Her  figure  suggested  these  questions. 
She  wore  a  fashionable  lilac  blue  silk,  pleated  over 
the  bosom ;  and  round  her  waist  a  chatelaine  to 
which  was  attached  a  number  of  trinkets,  a  purse 
of  gold  net,  a  pencil  case,  some  rings,  a  looking- 
glass,  and  small  gold  boxes  jewelled  —  probabljr 
containing  powder.  Her  hair  was  elaborately  ar- 
ranged, as  if  by  the  hairdresser,  and  she  exhaled 
a  faint  odour  of  heliotrope  as  she  crossed  the 
room.  She  was  still  a  handsome  woman ;  she 
once  had  been  beautiful,  but  too  obviously  beauti- 
ful to  be  really  beautiful ;  there  was  nothing  per- 
sonal or  distinguished  in  her  face ;  it  was  made 
of  too  well-known  shapes  —  the  long,  ordinary, 
clear-cut  nose,  and  the  eyes,  forehead,  cheeks, 
and    chin    proportioned    according  to  the  formula 


AGNES  LAHENS.  373 

of  the  casts  in  vestibules.  That  she  was  slightly 
dMass^e  was  clear  in  the  first  glance.  And  she 
represented  all  that  the  word  could  be  made  to 
mean  —  liaisons^  familiarity  with  fashionable  res- 
taurants, and  the  latest  French  literature. 

Lord  Chadwick  saw  that  she  was  out  of  temper, 
and  wondered  what  was  the  cause.  He  had  not 
yet  spoken  to  her ;  she  was  singing  when  he  came 
into  the  room.  So  laying  his  hand  on  her  shoul- 
der, he  said : 

♦What  is  the  matter,  Olive?' 

But  it  was  some  time  before  he  could  get  an 
answer.     At  last  she  said : 

'  I  had  an  unpleasant  scene  with  the  Major  this 
morning.' 

*I  am  glad  it  is  no  more  than  that,'  and  Lord 
Chadwick  threw  himself  into  an  arm-chair.  'What 
further  eccentricity  has  he  been  guilty  of.'  Does 
he  want  to  sweep  the  crossing,  or  to  wait  at  table 
in  the  crossing-sweeper's  clothes } ' 

'  He  has  bought  an  old  overcoat  from  the  butler.* 

'And  wants  to  wear  it  at  lunch.?' 

*  No ;  he's  got  a  new  suit.  I  insisted  on  that. 
It  came  home  last  night.  He  had  to  give  way, 
for  I  told  him  that  if  he  would  come  down  to 
lunch  he  must  come  decently  dressed,  otherwise 
he  would  do  Agnes  a  great  deal  of  harm.* 


374  CELIBATES. 

'But  you  couldn't  persuade  him  to  stick  to  his 
type-writing,  and  keep  out  of  the  way?' 

'No,  and  I  thought  it  better  not  to  try.  Agnes' 
return  home  has  excited  him  dreadfully,  and  he 
fancies  that  it  is  his  duty  to  watch  over  her  —  to 
protect  her  from  my  friends.' 

'  Then  I  suppose  we  shall  never  get  rid  of 
him.  He'll  be  here  all  day,  night  and  day.  Good 
Heavens ! ' 

'I  don't  say  that.  I  hope  that  this  new  idea  of 
his  is  only  a  freak.  He  will  soon  tire  of  his  task  of 
censor  of  morals.  Meanwhile,  we  are  to  be  most 
guarded  in  our  conversation.     And  as  for  you * 

'  What  has  he  got  against  me  ? '  and  Lord  Chad- 
wick  looked  at  Mrs.  Lahens.  '  About  me ! '  he 
repeated,  'Nonsense.' 

'  I  don't  mean  that  he's  jealous,  but  he  thinks  that 
we  should  not  continue  to  see  one  another.* 

*  Does  he  give  any  reason  ?  * 

'Agnes  is  coming  home  to-day.  I  shall  have  to 
take  her  into  society.  He  says  that  society  will 
not  stand  it,  unless  our  relations  are  broken  off.' 

'  Society  has  stood  it  for  the  last  seven  years ; 
society  will  stand  anything  except  the  Divorce  Court, 
and  there's  no  danger  of  that.' 

'The  Major's  very  queer.  I  don't  know  what's 
the  matter  with  him ;  I  never  saw  him  go  on  as  he 


AGNES   LAHENS.  375 

did  this  morning.      He  says  that  the  girl  shall  not 
be  sacrificed  if  he  can  help  it.' 

'You  don't  think  he'll  make  a  row,  do  you?* 

'Are  you  afraid?' 

*  Of  what  ?  For  your  sake  I  shouldn't  like  a 
row.  Afraid  of  a  madman  like  that!  But  he  can 
do  nothing.     I  don't  see  what  he  can  do.' 

'  That's  what  he  said  himself.  He  says  he  can  do 
nothing  —  you  should  have  seen  him  walking  up  and 
down  the  room,  dressed  in  a  suit  of  clothes  out  of  a 
rag  shop,  yellow-grey  things  two  sizes  too  big  for 
him ;  he  has  to  roll  up  the  ends  of  the  trousers.  He 
had  no  collar  on,  and  to  keep  his  neck  warm  he  had 
tied  an  old  pink  scarf  round  his  throat.  He  couldn't 
walk  either  way  above  a  couple  of  yards,  for  the  roof 
slants  down  almost  to  the  floor;  he  knocked  his  head 
against  the  roof,  but  he  did  not  mind,  he  went  on 
talking,  half  to  me,  half  to  himself.' 

'  He  sent  for  you,  then  ? ' 

*  Yes ;  that  he'd  like  to  see  me  upstairs.  I  told 
my  maid  to  say  that  he  was  to  come  down  to  my 
room,  but  she  brought  back  word  that  the  Major 
couldn't  come  down,  would  I  go  up  to  him.  So  I 
had  to  go  up  to  his  garret.  You  never  saw  such  a 
place.  At  last  I  got  tired  of  listening  to  him  —  I 
couldn't  stand  there  in  the  cold  any  longer  —  I  was 
catching  cold.' 


376  CELIBATES. 

'But  you  haven't  told  me  what  he  said.* 

*  The  usual  thing :  that  it  was  the  loss  of  his 
money  that  had  brought  him  where  he  was ;  that 
if  he  only  had  a  little  money,  if  he  could  only  keep 
himself,  he  would  take  his  daughter  away  to  live 
with  him.  He  didn't  know  what  would  become  of 
her  in  this  house.  Oh,  he  did  go  on.  At  last  he 
burst  into  tears,  he  threw  himself  at  my  feet  and 
said  he'd  forgive  me  everything  if  I'd  only  think 
of  my  daughter.' 

'What  did  you  say?' 

*I  said  the  best  way  to  consider  his  daughter's 
interests,  was  by  avoiding  all  scandal  and  wearing 
proper  clothes.' 

*  And  he  promised  he  would  wear  the  new  suit  ? ' 

*  Yes ;  he  promised  he  would.  He  said  that  he 
knew  all  I  said  was  true.  That  it  wasn't  my  fault, 
that  a  woman  couldn't  be  expected  to  respect  a  man 
who  couldn't  keep  her,  that  he  felt  the  shame  of  his 
position  in  the  house,  that  it  had  broken  his  heart, 
that  if  he  had  lost  his  money  it  was  not  his  fault, 
that  the  world  was  full  of  rogues,  you  know  —  you've 
heard  him  go  on.' 

'  I  should  think  I  had.  I  don't  know  how  I  put 
up  with  him.  Very  often  it  is  as  much  as  I  can  do 
to  prevent  myself  from  running  out  of  the  room.' 

Mrs.  Lahens  looked  at  her  lover  angrily. 


AGNES  LAHENS.  377 

'You  don't  think  what  I  have  to  put  up  with. 
You  come  here  when  you  like,  you  go  away  when 
you  like.  .  .  .  Men  are  always  the  same,  they  only 
think  of  themselves.  You  don't  think  of  me,  you  do 
not  remember  what  I  have  put  up  with  for  your 
sake,  of  the  sacrifices  I  have  made  for  you.  I  should 
have  left  him  years  ago  when  he  lost  his  money  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  fear  of  compromising  you.' 

'  He  never  would  have  divorced  you.  He'd  have 
been  left  without  a  cent  if  he  had,  and  he  couldn't 
have  got  anything  out  of  me.' 

'Whatever  my  husband's  faults  are,  he's  not  mer- 
cenary. There  are  many  who  think  more  of  money 
and  its  advantages  than  he.* 

'Now,  what  are  you  angry  about,  Olive.?'  and 
Lord  Chadwick  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

*  I  don't  like  unjust  accusations,  not  even  against 
my  husband.  The  Major  is  a  fool,  but  he  is  not  dis- 
honourable ;  he  is  the  most  honourable  man  that 
comes  to  this  house.  It  was  not  on  account  of  my 
money  that  he  did  not  divorce  me.' 

'On  account  of  you,  then.' 

'  Partly,  strange  as  that  may  seem  to  you,  and  on 
account  of  his  daughter.' 

Lord  Chadwick  did  not  answer.  The  conversation 
was  taking  a  disagreeable  turn,  and  as  he  looked 
into  the  fire  he  thought  how  he  might  change  it. 


378  •  CELIBATES. 

*  So  Agnes  returns  home  to-day  ? ' 

'Yes,  her  father  insisted  .  .  ,  She,  poor  dear, 
begged  and  prayed  to  be  allowed  to  become  a  nun, 
but  he  would  not  listen  to  her  any  more  than  he 
would  to  me.  .  .  .  There  was  no  use  arguing.  .  ,  . 
You  know  what  the  Major  is ;  you  are  never  sure 
when  he'll  turn  on  you.  If  I  opposed  him  he  might 
come  down  some  evening  when  there  was  a  party, 
and  inform  my  guests  that  I  kept  my  daughter 
imprisoned  in  a  convent,  that  I  wouldn't  let  her 
out.  No ;  I  daren't  oppose  him  on  this  point. 
Agnes  must  come  home  for  a  while.  But  the  experi- 
ment won't  succeed.  I  daresay  you  think  so  too. 
But  for  all  that  I'm  right,  as  time  will  prove.  A 
mother  knows  more  about  her  own  daughter  than 
any  one  else,  and  I  tell  you  that  Agnes  is  no  more 
fitted  for  the  world  than  I  am  for  a  convent.  I 
shall  have  to  drag  her  about  for  a  season  or  two. 
She  won't  succeed,  and  she'll  be  wretchedly  un- 
happy. I  shall  be  put  to  any  amount  of  trouble 
and  expense,  that  will  be  all.' 

'And  then  .5" 

'  I  don't  know.  Even  if  I  did  give  you  up,  I  don't 
see  what  would  be  gained.  All  I  could  do  would  be 
to  ask  you  not  to  come  to  the  house  any  more.' 

'That  is  nonsense.' 

*  Of  course  it  is  nonsense.     Can  I  go  back  on  my 


AGNES   LAHENS.  379 

whole  life  ?  can  I  change  all  my  friends  ?  If  I  did  I 
should  only  collect  more  exactly  like  them,  and  with- 
out knowing  I  was  doing  it.  Lie  low  for  a  month  or 
so,  and  then  pursue  the  same  old  way.  With  the 
best  intentions  in  the  world  we  cannot  change  our- 
selves.' 

'  But  you  don't  intend  to  give  me  up,  Olive  ? ' 

'  Do  you  want  me  to,  Reggie  ? ' 

*  No,  dearest,  we've  held  together  a  long  time  — 
seven  years  —  we  cannot  give  each  other  up.' 

'  We  can't  give  each  other  up,'  said  Mrs.  Lahens. 
*It  never  shall  be  broken  off,  unless  you  break  it 
off.' 

Lord  Chadwick  asked  himself  if  he  desired  to 
break  with  her.?  He  looked  at  her,  and  thought 
that  he  had  never  seen  her  look  so  old ;  but  he 
could  not  imagine  his  life  without  her.  Apart  from 
her,  there  was  nothing  for  him.  His  name  had  been 
mixed  up  in  questionable  city  transactions  ;  his  wife 
had  divorced  him,  and  he  was  over  forty  .  .  .  Not- 
withstanding his  title,  he'd  find  it  difficult  to  marry 
a  girl  with  money ;  he  couldn't  marry  one  without. 
Besides,  he  loved  Olive  as  well  as  a  man  could  love 
a  woman  whose  lover  he  has  been  for  seven  years. 
.  .  .  Mrs.  Lahens  looked  at  him,  and  wondered 
what  there  was  in  him  that  attached  her  so  firmly. 
They  had  once  loved  each  other  passionately.     All 


380  CELIBATES. 

that  was  over  now  .  .  .  But  still  she  loved  him. 
...  He  was  all  she  had  in  the  world.  To  live 
with  her  husband  without  Reggie !  no,  she  could 
not  think  of  it.  Even  if  she  did,  Agnes  would  profit 
nothing  by  it.  Every  one  knew  of  their  liaison. 
No  one  talked  about  it  any  more,  it  had  been  in  a 
way  accepted,  and  for  them  to  separate  would  only 
serve  to  set  Mayfair  gossiping  again, 

*  I  know  I  appear  selfish,'  she  said  ;  '  not  to  want 
to  see  my  daughter  must  seem  selfish.  But  I  am 
not  selfish,  Reggie.  I've  never  been  selfish  where 
you  have  been  concerned,  have  I } ' 

*  I  at  least  can't  accuse  you  of  selfishness,  Olive. 
You've  always  been  a  good  friend  to  me.  There 
was  my  bankruptcy ' 

'Do  not  speak  of  it.  I  only  did  for  you  what 
you  would  have  done  for  me.  I  have  been  very 
unlucky ;  I  was  cursed  with  a  husband  who  was  a 
fool,  and  who  lost  all  his  money  —  no  one  can  say 
he's  in  his  right  mind.  They  say  that  I  have 
driven  him  out  of  his  mind,  but  that  is  not  so, 
you  know  that  it  is  not  so ;  I've  not  driven  you 
out  of  your  mind.  There  never  was  such  a  fool 
as  my  husband.  He  has  acted  as  stupidly  about 
his  daughter  as  he  did  about  his  money.  First  he 
takes  her  away  from  me  —  I'm  not  good  enough 
for  her,  this  house  isn't  good  enough  for  her ;   he 


AGNES  LAHENS.  38 1 

shuts  her  up  in  a  convent,  and  never  has  her  home 
for  fear  she  should  hear  or  see  anything  that  was 
not  pious  and  good.  Then,  when  she  wants  to 
become  a  nun,  and  her  mind  is  made  up,  and  her 
character  is  formed,  he  insists  that  she  shall  come 
home,  and  that  I  shall  give  up  my  lover  and  bring 
her  into  society.  But  not  into  the  society  that 
comes  to  my  house,  but  into  some  other  society, 
some  highly  respectable  society  that  neither  he 
nor  I  knows  anything  about.  And  to  make  my 
task  the  more  easy,  he  insists  on  living  in  a  ser- 
vant's room,  buying  the  butler's  overcoat,  and  run- 
ning down  the  street  whistling  for  cabs,  and 
carrying  my  trunks  on  his  shoulder.  There  never 
was  such  madness  ;  God  knows  how  it  will  all  end.' 

She  turned  her  head  slightly  when  her  husband 
entered  the  room,  and,  without  getting  off  the  arm 
of  Lord  Chadwick's  chair,  said: 

'  Doesn't  he  look  well  in  that  suit  of  clothes, 
Reggie  ? ' 

The  Major  was  a  short  man,  shorter  by  nearly 
two  inches  than  his  wife  or  Lord  Chadwick.  His 
hair  had  once  been  red  ;  it  was  now  faded,  and  the 
tall  forehead  showed  bald  amid  a  slight  gleaning. 
His  beard  and  moustaches  were  thick,  unkempt, 
and  full  of  grey  hair.  The  nose  was  small  and 
aquiline,  and  the  eyes,  shallow  and  pale  blue,  wore 


382  CELIBATES. 

a  silly  and  vacant  stare.  The  skin  was  coloured 
everywhere  alike,  a  sort  of  conventional  tone  of 
flesh-colour  seemed  to  have  been  poured  over  the 
face,  forehead,  and  neck.  His  short  thick  hands 
were  covered  with  reddish  hair.  They  fidgeted  at 
the  trousers  and  waistcoat,  too  tightly  strained  across 
his  little  round  stomach;  and  he  did  not  desist  till 
his  wife  said : 

*  I  hope  you  will  have  finished  dressing  before  our 
guests  arrive.' 

'  Whom  have  you  asked  ?  Not  the  tall  thin  man 
who ' 

'Why  not.?' 

'  You  surely  don't  think  he  is  a  fit  companion  for 
Agnes  .-• ' 

'  Companion  for  Agnes !  no ;  but  I  don't  intend 
every  one  that  comes  here  to  lunch  as  a  companion 
for  Agnes.  I'm  sick  of  hearing  of  that  girl.  I've 
heard  of  nothing  else  for  the  last  week  —  the  people 
she  should  meet  — what  we  should  say  and  not  say 
before  her.  If  we  aren't  good  enough  for  her  she 
should  have  remained  in  the  convent.  But  what 
fault,  may  I  ask,  do  you  find  with  Moulton .? ' 

*  Only  what  you've  told  me.  .  .  .  Am  I  not  right, 
Reggie  ? ' 

*  Oh,  Reggie  will  agree  with  you  —  he  hates  Moul- 
ton.' 


AGNES  LAHENS.  383 

'I  don't  like  the  man.* 

'The  truth  is  that  he  sent  a  note  asking  if  he 
might  come,  and  I  knew  if  I  refused  he'd  have  noth- 
ing to  eat.  .  .  .  You  ought  to  be  able  to  judge 
Moulton  more  fairly,  for  it  is  want  of  money  that  has 
reduced  him  to  his  present  position.  He  was  bom  a 
gentleman,  and  his  uncle  only  allows  him  fifteen 
shillings  a  week.  This  pays  for  his  lodging  —  one 
room,  which  costs  five  shillings  a  week — another 
five  shillings  a  week  goes  for  current  expenses,  a  cup 
of  tea  in  the  morning,  and  a  few  omnibus  fares ;  the 
remaining  five  shillings  goes  towards  his  clothes.  So 
every  day  he  finds  himself  face  to  face  with  the  prob- 
lem where  he  shall  lunch,  where  he  shall  dine.  He's 
good-looking,  women  like  him,  and  any  little  present 
they  make  him  is  welcomed,  I  can  assure  you.  He 
said  the  other  day,  "  Look  at  my  boot,  there's  a  hole 
in  it ;  I  shall  be  laid  up  with  a  cold.  You  don't  know 
what  it  is  to  be  ill  in  a  room  for  which  you  pay  five 
shillings  a  week."  What  could  I  do  but  to  tell  him 
that  he  might  order  a  pair  at  my  shoemaker's  ? ' 

'And  he  ordered  a  pair  that  cost  three  pounds,' 
said  Lord  Chadwick. 

*  Yes ;  I  did  think  that  he  might  have  chosen  a 
cheaper  pair.  But  you're  rather  hard  on  him,'  said 
Mrs.  Lahens ;  'he's  not  the  only  man  in  London  who 
takes  money  from  women.' 


384  CELIBATES. 

'I  wonder  he  doesn't  go  to  Mashonaland  or  to 
Canada?'   said  the  Major. 

'  If  every  one  who  could  not  make  his  living  here 
went  to  Mashonaland  or  Canada,  the  London  draw- 
ing-rooms would  be  pretty  empty.' 

'You  mean  that  for  me,  Olive,'  said  the  Major.  '  I 
would  go  to-morrow  to  Mashonaland  if  I  were  as 
young  as  Moulton.' 

At  that  moment  a  youngish-looking  man,  about 
five-and-thirty,  came  into  the  room  quickly.  Not- 
withstanding the  wintry  weather  he  was  clad  in  a 
light  grey  summer  suit ;  he  wore  a  blue  shirt  and  a 
blue  linen  tie,  neatly  tied  and  pinned.  Mrs.  Lahens, 
the  Major,  and  Reggie  glanced  at  the  boots  which 
had  cost  three  pounds,  and  Mrs.  Lahens  thought 
how  carefully  that  grey  summer  suit  was  folded  and 
laid  away  in  the  tiny  chest  of  drawers  which  stood 
next  the  wall  by  the  little  window.  Mr.  Moulton  was 
clean  shaved.  His  features  were  long  and  regular ; 
a  high  Socratic  forehead  suggested  an  intelligence 
which  his  conversation  did  not  confirm.  His  man- 
ners were  stagey,  and  there  was  a  hollow  cordiality 
in  the  manner  in  which  he  said  '  How  do  you  do,* 
and  shook  hands.  Immediately  his  blue,  superficial, 
glassy  eyes  were  turned  to  Mrs.  Lahens ;  and  he 
studied  her  figure  in  her  new  gown,  and  whispered 
that  he  had  never  seen  her  looking  better. 


AGNES  LAHENS.  385 

*  So  there  he  is,  and  in  his  new  clothes.  Curious 
little  fellow  he  is,'  said  Moulton,  eyeing  the  Major. 
'  Did  he  offer  much  resistance  .■*  You  don't  seem 
torn  at  all.     Not  a  scratch.' 

'I  did  all  I  could  to  dissuade  him,  but ' 

'  I  know,  suffering  from  daughter  on  the  brain.  .  .  . 
Tell  me,  shall  we  see  much  of  him  ?  Will  he  come 
down  every  day  to  lunch,  and  what  about  dinner.?' 

*  I  hope  not,  I  think  not  ...  he  has  his  type- 
writing to  attend  to.' 

'  At  all  events  the  mystery  is  cleared  up.  I  don't 
think  I  ever  was  believed  when  I  said  that  I  had 
once  spoken  to  him  on  the  stairs.' 

'Do  you  hear  that,  Major.?  Mr.  Moulton  says 
that  he  doesn't  think  he  ever  was  believed  when 
he  said  that  he  had  once  spoken  to  you  on  the 
staircase.     Major,  do  you  hear.?' 

*  Yes,  dear,  I  hear.  But  I  am  talking  to  Reggie 
about  Miss  Lahens.  By  the  way,  Mr.  Moulton,  my 
daughter,  Miss  Lahens,  is  coming  home  to-day,  so 
I  hope  that  you'll  be  guarded  in  your  conversation, 
and  will  say  nothing  that  a  young  girl  may  not 
hear.' 

'  I  shall  be  very  pleased  to  see  Agnes  again,*  said 
Moulton.  '  If  I  had  thought  of  it  I  would  have  read 
up  the  lives  of  the  saints.' 

'I  beg,  Mr.  Moulton,  that  you  do  not  speak  dis- 
2  c 


386  CELIBATES. 

respectfully  of  Miss  Lahens.  Perhaps  there  is  noth- 
ing in  your  conversation  that  is  fit  for  her  to  hear.* 

Moulton  looked  at  Mrs.  Lahens,  then  taking  in 
the  situation,  he  said  : 

'  If  I  have  the  pleasure  of  talking  to  Miss  Lahens 
I  shall  confine  ray  conversation  to  those  subjects 
with  which  she  is  familiar.  I  shall  acquit  myself 
better  than  you,  I  think,  Major ;  I  have  a  sister  who 
is  a  nun.     I  know  a  good  deal  about  convents.' 

'  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,'  said  the  Major.  *  I  wanted 
you  to  know  that  my  daughter  has  been  very  strictly 
brought  up.' 

'My  dear  Major,'  said  Mrs.  Lahens,  'you  had  bet- 
ter write  on  a  piece  of  paper  "My  daughter,  Miss 
Lahens,  comes  home  from  school  to-day,  and  my 
guests  at  lunch  are  particularly  requested  to  be 
guarded  in  their  conversation."  You  can  put  it 
up  where  every  one  can  see  it,  then  there  can  be 
no  mistake.  The  only  disadvantage  of  this  will  be 
that  at  the  end  of  the  week  Agnes  will  be  the  talk 
of  the  town.  If  Lilian  Dare  were  to  hear  you  she 
would ' 

'But  you  haven't  asked  her.'' 

*  Why  not }    she's  received  everywhere.* 

'Not  where  there  are  young  girls.  You  know 
how  she  got  her  money.' 

'Oh  yes,   we've  all  heard  that  story,'  said  Mrs. 


AGNES  LAHENS.  387 

Lahens,   and    before    the    Major    could    reply    the 

servant  announced  — 

'  Miss  Lahens  and  Father  White.' 

*  Who  is  Father  White  ? '  whispered  Moulton. 

'I  haven't  the  least  idea,'  said  Mrs.  Laliens. 


II. 


Agnes  wore  a  jacket  made  of  some  dark  material, 
she  held  a  little  fur  muff  in  her  hand,  and  under  a 
black  straw  hat  her  blue  eyes  smiled;  and  when  she 
caught  sight  of  her  mother  she  uttered  a  happy  cry, 

Mrs.  Lahens  looked  at  Agnes  curiously ;  at  this 
thin  girl ;  for,  though  Agnes'  face  was  round  and 
rosy,  her  waist  was  slender,  and  her  hands,  and  hips, 
and  bosom ;  and  Mrs.  Lahens  was  unconsciously 
affected  by  the  contrast  that  her  own  regular  and 
painted  features,  and  her  long  life  of  social  advent- 
ure, presented  to  this  pretty,  dovelike  girl,  this  pale 
conventual  rose,  without  instinct  of  the  world,  and 
into  whose  guileless  mind  no  knowledge  of  the  world 
would  apparently  ever  enter. 

*Oh,  father,  how  are  you?  I  did  not  see  you, 
the  room  is  so  dark.' 

Agnes  kissed  her  father,  and  with  her  right 
hand  in  her  mother's  left  hand,  and  her  left  hand 
in  her  father's  left  she  looked  at  her  parents, 
overcome  by  her  affection  for  them.  But  suddenly 
remembering,  she  said: 

388 


AGNES  LAHENS.  389 

'But  I  haven't  introduced  you  to  Father  White. 
How  rude  of  me !  Father  White  was  good  enough 
to  see  me  home.  The  Mother  Abbess  was  afraid 
I  should  get  into  a  wrong  train,  or  get  run  over 
in  the  streets.' 

The  little  priest  came  forward  shyly.  His  black 
cloth  trousers  were  too  short,  and  did  not  hide 
his  clumsy  laced  boots.  His  features  were  small 
and  regular,  and  his  light-brown  hair  grew  thick 
on  his  little  round  head,  which  he  carried  on  one 
side.  He  was  young,  seven  or  eight  and  twenty, 
and  so  good-looking  that  some  unhappy  romantic 
passion  suggested  itself  as  the  cause  of  his  long 
black  coat  and  penitential  air, 

'I'm  sure  that  we're  very  much  obliged  to  you 
for  your  kindness.  Father  White,'  said  Mrs.  Lahens. 

*I  was  going  to  London,  and  the  Mother  Abbess 
asked  me  to  take  charge  of  Miss  Lahens,  and 
surrender  her  safe  into  your  hands.' 

'  Won't  you  sit  down.  Father  White  ? '  said  Mrs. 
Lahens.  *  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  Agnes.  I 
hope  you  will  stop  to  lunch,  ...  I  wish  you 
would,' 

'Thank  you,  but  I'm  afraid  I  cannot.  I  have 
an  engagement  to  lunch  with  the  Dominicans.' 

'  I'm  sorry,  but  you  can  spare  me  a  few  minutes/ 
said  Mrs.  Lahens,  leading  him  away. 


390 


CELIBATES. 


Lord  Chadwick  came  forward  and  shook  hands 
with  Agnes. 

*  I'm  afraid  you've  forgotten  me,  Agnes.  It  Js 
nearly  five  years ' 

'  No ;  I  haven't,  at  least  not  quite.  It  was  in 
the  country,  at  the  cottage  in  Surrey.  You're  the 
gentleman  who  used  to  go  out  driving  with  mother.' 

'  Yes ;  you're  right  so  far,  I  used  to  go  out  driv- 
ing with  Mrs.  Lahens.     You  used  to  come  too.' 

'And  very  often  you  used  to  speak  French  to 
mother.  I  never  could  understand  why — I  used 
to  think  and  think.' 

'And  do  you  remember  any  of  the  things  he 
used  to  say  in  French.?'  said  Mr.  Moulton. 

'No;  I  didn't  understand  French  then.' 

*  But  you  do  now } ' 

'  Yes.  Our  school  is  one  of  the  best ;  we  are 
taught  everything.' 

'I'm  sorry  for  that.  There'll  be  nothing  for  us 
to  teach  you.' 

'For  you  to  teach  me.?'  said  Agnes,  looking  at 
him  inquiringly. 

At  that  moment  the  servant  announced  Mr. 
Harding.  The  Major  went  forward  and  welcomed 
him  cordially. 

'You  see,  you've  lost  your  bet,'  Moulton  whis- 
pered to  Harding. 


AGNES  LAHENS.  39! 

*We  were  very  sorry  to  lose  her,'  said  Father 
White,  'and  she  was  sorry  to  leave,  but  it  would 
not  be  right  for  her  to  take  vows  to  enter  a 
severe  order  until  she  has  seen  the  world  and  had 
opportunities  of  knowing  if  she  has  a  vocation. 
On  that  point  I  shall  be  very  firm  with  her,  you 
can  rely  on  me,  Mrs.  Lahens.' 

'I'm  afraid  that  she  will  never  care  for  society. 
I'm  afraid  that  this  experience  will  not  prove  of 
much  avail.  She'll  return  to  the  convent.  I  shall 
be  sorry  to  lose  her.' 

'  She's  indeed  a  good  girl,  and  if  she  finds  that 
she  has  a  vocation ' 

'Now,  you  are  speaking  about  me,'  said  Agnes. 
*  I  can  hear  the  word  vocation.' 

Mrs.  Lahens  smiled  and  was  about  to  reply 
when  the  servant  announced  Miss  Lilian  Dare. 

Lilian  was  a  red  blonde;  her  rich  chestnut  hair 
fell  over  her  ears  like  wings,  and  she  was  showily 
dressed  in  an  expensive  French  gown  which  did 
not  suit  her,  which  made  her  seem  older  than  she 
was. 

'So  you  have  come  alone .^' 

'Yes,  dear  Lady  Duckle  was  not  feeling  well 
this  morning;  she  sends  you  her  love,  and  begs 
you'll  excuse  her.' 

'Oh  yes,  we'll  excuse  her.     But  tell  me,  Lilian,' 


392  CELIBATES. 

said  Mrs.  Lahens,  taking  the  girl  aside,  'how  do 
you  like  living  with  her.?* 

'It  is  delightful,  you  don't  know  what  it  means 
to  me  to  get  away  from  home — all  those  brothers 
and  sisters — that  hateful  suburb.' 

'You  must  never  speak  of  it  again.  Islington, 
where  is  that.?  you  must  say  if  Islington  should 
happen  in  the  conversation,  which  is  not  likely. 
I  always  told  you  that  you'd  have  to  throw  your 
family  over.  We  want  you,  not  your  family. 
Chaperons  nowadays  are  a  make-believe.  Lady 
Duckle  will  suit  you  very  well ;  she'll  feel  ill  when 
you  don't  want  her,  when  you  do  she'll  be  all 
there.  She's  an  honest  old  thing,  and  will  do  all 
that's  required  of  her  for  the  money  you  pay  her. 
Thirty  pounds  a  month,  that's  it,  isn't  it,  dear.?' 

The  servant  announced  Lady  Castlerich. 

Lady  Castlerich  disguised  her  seventy  years 
under  youthful  gowns  and  an  extraordinary  yellow 
wig.  She  wore  a  large  black  hat  trimmed  with 
black  ostrich  plumes,  it  became  her;  she  looked 
quite  handsome,  and  her  cracked  and  tremulous 
voice  was  as  full  of  sympathy  as  her  manner  was 
of  high  breeding.  She  seemed  very  fond  of  Lilian, 
and  was  soon  engaged  in  conversation  with  her. 

'You  mustn't  disappoint  me,  my  dear;  you  must 
come  to  my  shootin'  party  on  the  twenty-fifth,  and 


AGNES   LAHENS.  393 

dear  Lady  Duckle,  I  hope  she'll  come  too,  though 
she  is  rather  a  bore.  I  shall  have  plenty  of  beaux 
for  you,  there  is  my  neighbour  Lord  Westhorpe, 
he's  young  and  handsome,  a  beautiful  place, 
charmin',  my  dear.  And  if  you  don't  like  him, 
there's  my  old  lover  Appletown,  you  know,  my 
dear,  all  that  is  a  long  while  ago.  I  said  to 
Appletown  more  than  ten  years  ago  —  "Apple- 
town,  this  must  end,  I  am  an  old  woman."  You've 
no  idea  the  look  he  gave  me.  "Florence,"  he 
said,  "don't  call  yourself  an  old  woman,  I  can't 
bear  it.  You'll  never  be  an  old  woman,  at  least 
not  in  my  eyes."  Charmin',  wasn't  it;  no  one 
but  a  nice  man  could  speak  like  that.  So  we've 
always  remained  friends,  Appletown  has  his  rooms 
at  Morelands,  and  he  does  as  he  likes.  He  likes 
you,  dear,  he  told  me  so.  I've  got  a  telegram 
from  him,  I'll  show  it  to  you  after  lunch.' 

The  servant  announced  Mr.  Herbert  St.  Clare, 
a  fastidiously-dressed  man.  He  was  tall  and  thin, 
and  his  eyes  were  pale  and  agreeable;  his  beard 
was  close-clipped,  he  played  with  his  eye-glass,  and 
shook  hands  absent-mindedly. 

*Oh,  Mr.  St.  Clare,  I'm  enchanted  with  your  last 
song,'  said  Lady  Castlerich.  *  Every  one  is  talking 
of  it,  it  is  quite  the  rage,  charmin',  I  wish  I  had  had 
it  ten  years  ago,  my  voice  is  gone  now.' 


394  CELIBATES. 

'You  still  sing  charmingly,  Lady  Castlerich,  not 
much  voice  is  required  if  the  singer  is  a  musician.' 

'  You're  very  kind,'  and  the  old  lady  laughed  with 
pleasure,  and  Mrs.  Lahens  smiled  satirically,  and 
whispered : 

'Oh,  you  fibber,  St.  Clare.* 

*  I'm  not  fibbing,'  he  answered ;  '  she  sings  the 
old  Italian  airs  charmingly.' 

Soon  after  lunch  was  announced,  and  Mrs.  Lahens 
once  more  asked  Father  White  to  stay.  He  begged 
her  to  excuse  him,  and  she  went  into  the  dining- 
room  leaving  him  in  the  passage  with  Agnes. 

'Good-bye,  my  dear  child,  I  shall  see  you  next 
week.  I  will  write  telling  you  when  I'm  coming, 
and  you'll  tell  me  what  you  think  of  the  world.  The 
convent  is  only  for  those  who  have  a  vocation.  You 
can  serve  God  in  the  world  as  well  as  elsewhere.' 

'  I  wonder,'  said  Agnes,  and  she  looked  doubtfully 
into  the  priest's  eyes.  '  I  wonder.  I  confess  I'm  a 
little  curious.    At  present  I  do  not  understand  at  all.' 

'  Of  course  the  convent  is  very  different  from  the 
world,'  said  Father  White.  '  You  learnt  to  under- 
stand the  convent,  now  you  must  learn  to  understand 
the  life  of  the  world.' 

'Must  I?     Why  must  I?' 

'So  that  you  may  be  sure  that  you  have  a  voca- 
tion.    Good-bye,  dear  child.     The  Lord  be  with  you.' 


AGNES   LAHENS.  395 

Agnes  went  into  the  dining-room,  and  she  noticed 
that  every  one  was  listening  to  her  father,  who  was 
talking  of  the  success  her  mother  had  had  at  a 
concert.  She  had  sung  two  songs  by  Gounod  and 
Cherubino's  Ave  Maria.  He  declared  that  he  had 
never  seen  anything  like  it.  He  wished  every  one 
had  been  there.  His  wife  was  in  splendid  voice. 
It  was  a  treat,  and  the  public  thought  so  too. 

Agnes  listened  and  was  touched  by  her  father's 
admiration  and  love  for  her  mother.  But  very  soon 
she  perceived  that  the  others  were  listening  super- 
ciliously. Suddenly  Mrs.  Lahens  intervened.  'My 
dear  Major,  you're  talking  too  much,  remember  your 
promise.'  The  Major  said  not  another  word,  and 
Agnes  felt  sorry  for  her  father.  She  remembered 
him  far  back  in  her  childhood,  always  a  little  weak 
and  kind,  always  devoted  to  her  mother,  always 
praising  her,  always  attending  on  her,  always  carry- 
ing her  music,  reminding  her  of  something  she  had 
forgotten,  and  running  to  fetch  it.  Looking  at  him 
now,  after  many  years,  she  remembered  that  she 
used  to  see  more  of  him  than  she  did  of  her  mother. 
He  used  to  come  to  see  her  in  the  nursery,  and  she 
remembered  how  they  used  to  go  out  together  and 
sit  on  the  stairs,  so  that  they  might  hear  mother, 
who  was  singing  in  the  drawing-room.  She  remem- 
bered that  she  used  to  ask  her  father  why  they  could 


396  CELIBATES. 

not  go  to  the  drawing-room.  He  used  to  answer 
that  mother  had  visitors.  She  used  to  hear  men's 
voices,  and  then  mother  would  call  her  father  down 
to  wish  them  good-bye. 

Her  memories  of  her  mother  were  not  so  distinct. 
She  never  saw  her  mother  except  on  the  rare  occa- 
sions when  she  was  admitted  to  the  drawing-room ; 
she  remembered  her  standing  in  long  shining  dresses 
with  long  trains  curled  around  her  feet,  which  she 
kicked  aside  when  she  advanced  to  receive  some 
visitor ;  or  she  remembered  her  mother  on  the 
stairs,  a  bouquet  in  her  hand,  a  diamond  star  in  her 
hair ;  the  front  door  was  open,  and  the  lamps  of  the 
brougham  gleamed  in  the  dark  street.  Then  her 
mother  would  kiss  her,  and  tell  her  she  must  be  a 
good  girl,  and  go  to  sleep  when  she  went  to  bed. 

There  had  never  seemed  to  be  but  one  person  in 
the  house,  and  that  was  mother.  Where  was  mother 
going,  to  the  theatre,  to  a  dinner-party,  to  the  opera } 
and  the  phrase  'When  shall  the  carriage  come  to 
fetch  mother '  had  fixed  itself  on  her  memory.  And 
in  her  mother's  bedroom — the  largest  and  hand- 
somest room  in  the  house  —  she  remembered  the 
maid  opening  large  wardrobes,  putting  away  soft 
white  garments,  laces,  green  silk  and  pink  petti- 
coats, more  beautiful  than  the  dresses  that  covered 
them.     The  large  white  dressing-table,  strewn  with 


AGNES  LAHENS.  397 

curious  ivories,  the  uses  of  which  she  could  not 
imagine,  had  likewise  fixed  itself  on  her  memory. 
She  remembered  the  hand-glasses,  the  scattered  jew- 
ellery, the  scent-bottles,  and  the  little  boxes  of  powder 
and  rouge,  and  the  pencil  with  which  her  mother 
darkened  her  eyebrows  and  eyelids.  For  Mrs, 
Lahens  had  always  been  addicted  to  the  use  of  cos- 
metics, therefore  the  paint  on  her  mother's  face  did 
not  shock  Agnes  as  it  might  otherwise  have  done. 
But  she  could  not  but  notice  that  it  had  increased. 
Her  mother's  mouth  seemed  to  her  now  like  a  red 
wound.  Ashamed  of  the  involuntary  comment, 
Agnes  repelled  all  criticism,  and  threw  herself  into 
the  belief  that  all  her  mother  did  was  right,  that  she 
was  the  best  and  most  beautiful  woman  in  London, 
that  to  be  her  daughter  was  the  highest  privilege. 

Her  thoughts  were  entirely  with  her  parents ; 
and  she  had  hardly  spoken  to  the  men  on  either 
side  of  her.  Mr.  Moulton  had  asked  her  if  she 
were  glad  to  come  home,  if  she  rejoiced  in  the 
prospect  of  balls  and  parties,  if  she  were  sorry  to 
leave  her  favourite  nun.  She  had  answered  his  ques- 
tions briefly,  and  he  had  returned  to  his  exchange 
of  gallantries  with  Lady  Castlerich,  who  he  hoped 
would  invite  him  to  Morelands.  Agnes  did  not 
quite  like  him.  She  liked  Mr.  St.  Clare  better. 
St.  Clare  had  asked  her  if  she  sang,  and  when  she 


398  CELIBATES. 

told  him  that  she  was  leading  soprano  in  the  convent 
choir  he  had  talked  agreeably  until  Miss  Dare  said : 

*  Now,  Mr.  St.  Clare,  leave  off  flirting  with  Agnes.' 
Her  remark  made   every  one   laugh,  and   in   the 

midst  of  the  laughter  Mrs.  Lahens  said: 

'  So  my  little  girl  is  coming  out  of  her  shell.' 

*  Out  of  cell,'  said  Mr.   Moulton,  laughing. 

*  Out  of  her  what  ? '  asked  Lady  Castlerich. 
'You  don't  know.  Lady  Castlerich,  that  my  Agnes 

wanted  to  become  a  nun,  to  enter  a  convent  where 
they  get  up  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  to  say 
matins.' 

'Oh,  how  very  dreadful,'  said  Lady  Castlerich, 
'Agnes  must  come  to  my  shootin'  party.* 

'Father  White  —  the  priest  you  saw  here  just 
now  —  brought  her  home.  Fortunately  he  took  our 
side,  and  he  told  Agnes  she  must  see  the  world ;  it 
would  be  time  enough  a  year  hence  to  think  if  she 
had  a  vocation.' 

'Mother  dear,  he  said  six  months.' 

'What,  are  you  tired  of  us  already,  Agnes?' 

*  No,  mother,  but  — '     Agnes  hung  down  her  head. 
'  Agnes  must  come  to  my  shootin'  party,  we  must 

find  a  young  man  for  her,  there  is  Mr.  Moulton, 
or  would  you  like  Mr.  St.  Clare  better  ?  I  hope, 
Mr.  Moulton,  you'll  be  able  to  come  to  Morelands 
on  the   twenty-fifth.* 


AGNES  LAHENS.  399 

Mr.  Moulton  said  that  nothing  would  give  him 
more  pleasure,  and  feeling  that  Lady  Castlerich 
intended  that  his  charms  should  for  ever  obliter- 
ate Agnes'  conventual  aspiration  he  leaned  towards 
her  and  asked  her  if  she  knew  Yorkshire.  More- 
lands  was  in  Yorkshire,  His  conversation  was,  how- 
ever, interrupted  by  Lady  Castlerich,  who  said  in 
her  clear  cracked  voice : 

*We  must  put  Agnes  in  the  haunted  room  amid 
the  tapestries.' 

*  No,  no,  don't  frighten  her,'  whispered  the  Major. 
'  But,  father,  I  am  not  so  easily  frightened  as  that.' 
'  Who  haunts  the  tapestry-room  ? ' 

*  A  nun,  dear,  so  they  say ;  Morelands  was  a 
monastery  once  —  a  nunnery,  I  mean.  The  mon- 
astery was  opposite.' 

'That  was  convenient,'  giggled  Mr.  Moulton. 
'And  why  does  the  nun  haunt  the  tapestries.^' 

*  Ah,  my  dear,  that  I  can't  tell  you.' 

'  Perhaps  the  nun  was  a  naughty  nun,'  suggested 
Mr.  Moulton.  *  Are  there  no  naughty  nuns  in  your 
convent  ^ ' 

*  Oh,  no,  not  in  my  convent,  all  the  sisters  are 
very  good,  you  cannot  imagine  how  good  they  are,' 
said  Agnes,  and  she  looked  out  of  eyes  so  pale  and 
so  innocent  that  he  almost  felt  ashamed. 

'But   what   a   strange    idea   that    was   of    yours, 


400  CELIBATES. 

Agnes,'  said  Miss  Dare  across  the  table,  'to  want 
to  shut  yourself  up  for  ever  among  a  lot  of  women, 
with  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  say  prayers.' 

'You  think  like  that  because  you  do  not  know 
convent  life.  There  is,  I  assure  you,  plenty  to  do, 
plenty  to  think  about.' 

'Fancy,  they  hardly  ever  speak,  only  at  certain 
hours,'  said  Mrs.    Lahens. 

*  It  is  the  getting  up  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing that  seems  to  me  the  worst  part,'  said  Miss 
Dare. 

'The  monotony,'  said  St.  Clare,  'must  be  ter- 
rible ;  always  the  same  faces,  never  seeing  anything 
new,  knowing  that  you  will  never  see  anything 
else.' 

Agnes  listened  to  these  objections  eagerly. 
'The  nuns  are  not  sad  at  all,'  she  said.  'If  you 
saw  them  playing  at  ball  in  the  garden  you  would 
see  that  they  were  quite  as  happy  as  those  who 
live  in  the  world.  I  don't  know  if  you  are  sad  in 
the  world ;  I  don't  know  the  world,  but  I  can  assure 
you  that  there  is  no  sadness  in  the  convent.' 

Agnes  paused  and  looked  round.  Every  one 
was  listening,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  she  was 
induced  to  speak  again.  .  .  .  Then  in  answer  to 
her  mother's  questions,  she  said  : 

'We    have    our    occupations    and    our    interests. 


AGNES  LAHENS.  4OI 

They  would  seem  trivial  enough  to  you,  but  they 
interest  us  and  we  are  happy.' 

'There  must  be,*  said  Lilian,  'satisfaction  in  hav- 
ing something  definite  to  do,  to  know  where  you 
are  going  and  what  you  are  striving  for.  We  don't 
know  what  we  are  striving  for  or  where  we  are 
going.  And  the  trouble  we  give  ourselves !  Say 
what  you  will,  it  is  something  to  be  spared  all 
that.' 

'  Yet  if  we  asked  the  ordinary  man,'  said  Hard- 
ing, 'what  he'd  do  if  he  had  ten  thousand  a  year, 
he  would  answer  that  he  would  do  nothing.  But 
he  may  not.  The  only  man  who  does  nothing  is 
the  man  who  suddenly  acquires  ten  thousand  a 
year ;  he  tries  to  live  on  his  income ;  he  doesn't, 
he  dies  of  it.' 

'  And  those  who  are  born  rich  ? '  asked  Moulton. 

'They  work  hard  enough,  and  their  work  is 
the  hardest  of  all,  their  work  is  amusement. 
For  by  some  strange  misunderstanding  all  the  most 
tedious  and  unsatisfactory  means  of  distraction,  are 
termed  amusement,  betting,  gambling,  travelling, 
dinner-parties,  love-making.  Whereas  the  valid  and 
sufficient  form  of  distraction,  earning  your  livelihood 
by  the  sweat  of  your  brow,  is  designated  by  the 
unpleasant  word  Labour.' 

*  But  if  you  are  fortunate  in  love,  you're  happy,' 

3D 


402  CELIBATES. 

said  old  Lady  Castlerich,  'I  think  I  have  made 
my  lovers  happy.' 

Harding  laughed.     '  Happy  !  for  how  long  ? ' 

'That  depends.  Love  is  not  a  joy  that  lasts  for 
ever,'  the  old  lady  added  with  a  chuckle. 

'But  did  no  woman  make  you  happy,  Mr. 
Harding.''  asked  Lilian,  and  she  fixed  her  round, 
prominent  eyes  upon  him. 

'The  woman  who  gives  most  happiness  gives  most 
pain.  The  man  who  leaves  an  adoring  mistress  at 
midnight  suffers  most.  A  few  minutes  of  dis- 
tracted happiness  as  he  drives  home.  He  falls 
asleep  thanking  God  that  he  will  see  her  at  mid- 
day. But  he  awakes  dreading  a  letter  putting  him 
off.     He  listens  for  the  footstep  of  a  messenger  boy.' 

*  If  she  doesn't  disappoint  him  .' ' 

'She  will   disappoint  him   sooner  or  later.' 
'  I   have    never    disappointed    you,'    said    Lilian, 
still  looking  at  Harding. 

'But  you  have  not  been  to  see  me.' 

*  No ;  I've  not  been  to  see  you,'  she  replied,  and 
played  distractedly  with  some  dried  fruit  on  her 
plate. 

'  These  are  confessions,'  said  Lady  Castlerich, 
laughing. 

'  Confessions  of  missed  opportunities,'  said 
Moulton, 


AGNES   LAHENS.  403 

'  So,  then,  your  creed  is  that  love  cannot  endure,' 
said  Lord  Chadwick, 

'The  love  that  endures  is  the  heaviest  burden 
of  all,'  Harding  replied  incautiously.  A  silence  fell 
over  the  lunch  table,  and  all  feared  to  raise  their 
eyes  lest  they  should  look  at  Mrs,  Lahens  and 
Lord  Chadwick. 

*  I  suppose  you  are  right,'  said  Mrs,  Lahens.  *  It 
is  not  well  that  anything  should  outlive  its  day. 
But  sometimes  it  happens  so.  But  look,'  she  ex- 
claimed, laughing  nervously,  *  how  Agnes  is  listening 
to  St,  Clare.  Those  two  were  made  for  each  other. 
Celibacy  and  Work,  Which  is  Celibacy  and  which 
is  Work.?' 

*I  think,  Olive,'  said  the  Major,  'that  you  are 
rather  hard  upon  the  girl.  You  forget  that  she 
has  only  just  come  from  school  and  doesn't  under- 
stand.' 

*  My  dear  Major,'  said  Mrs,  Lahens,  and  her  voice 
was  full  of  contempt  for  her  husband,  'is  it  you  or 
I  who  has  to  take  Agnes  into  society  ?  As  I  told 
you  before,  Agnes  will  have  to  accept  society  as 
it  is.  She  won't  find  her  convent  in  any  drawing- 
room  I  know,  and  the  sooner  she  makes  up  her  mind 
on  that  point,  the  better  for  her  and  the  better  for  us.' 

'  Society  will  listen  for  five  minutes,'  said  Lilian, 
'to  tales  of  conventual  innocence.' 


404  CELIBATES. 

'  And  be  interested  in  them,'  said  Lord  Chadwick, 
'as  in  an  account  of  the  last  burlesque.' 

'  With  this  difference,'  said  Moulton,  '  that  society 
will  go  to  the  burlesque,  but  not  to  the  convent.' 

Agnes  glanced  at  her  mother,  seeing  very  dis- 
tinctly the  painted,  worldly  face.  That  her  mother 
should  speak  so  cruelly  to  her  cut  her  to  the  heart : 
and  she  longed  to  rush  from  the  room  —  from  all 
these  cruel,  hateful  people ;  another  word  and  she 
would  have  been  unable  to  refrain,  but  in  the  few 
seconds  which  had  appeared  an  eternity  to  Agnes, 
the  conversation  suddenly  changed,  Lilian  Dare 
had  returned  to  the  idea  expressed  by  Harding 
that  he  had  only  found  happiness  in  work,  and 
this  was  St.  Clare's  opportunity  to  speak  of  the 
opera  he  was  writing. 

'In  the  first  act  barbarians  are  making  a  raft.' 

'What  are  they  making  the  raft  for.?'  asked 
Lady  Castlerich. 

'To  get  to  the  other  side  of  a  lake.  They  have 
no  women,  and  they  hope  to  rob  the  folk  on  the 
other  side  of  theirs.' 

St.  Clare  explained  the  various  motives  he  was 
to  employ ;  the  motive  of  aspiration,  or  the  woman 
motive,  was  repeated  constantly  on  the  horns  during 
the  building  of  the  raft,  St.  Clare  sang  the  motive. 
It  was  with  this  motive  that  he  began  the  prelude. 


AGNES   LAHENS.  405 

Then  came  two  variations  on  the  motive,  and  then 
the  motive  of  jealousy.  St.  Clare  was  eager  to 
explain  the  combinations  of  instruments  he  in- 
tended to  employ,  and  the  effect  of  his  trumpets 
at  a  certain  moment,  but  the  servant  was  handing 
round  coffee  and  liqueurs,  and  the  story  of  what 
happened  to  the  women  who  were  carried  off  on 
the  raft  had  to  be  postponed.  St.  Clare  looked  dis- 
appointed. But  he  was  in  a  measure  consoled  when 
Lady  Castlerich  told  him  that  they'd  go  through 
the  opera  together  when  he  came  to  stay  with  her 
for  her  shooting  party. 

'  Won't  you  sing  something,  Lilian } '  said  Mrs. 
Lahens,  as  they  went  upstairs. 

*No,  dear,  I'd  sooner  not,  but  you  will' 

*  I'd  sooner  sing  a  little  later.  I  don't  know  where 
my  music  is,  it  has  been  all  put  away.  But  do 
you  sing.  St.  Clare  will  accompany  you.  Do,  to 
please  me,'  and  Mrs.  Lahens  sat  down  in  a  distant 
corner. 

She  had  said  that  very  morning,  as  she  painted 
her  face  before  the  glass,  '  I  am  an  old  woman,  or 
nearly.  How  many  more  years  ?  Three  at  most, 
then  I  shall  be  like  Lady  Castlerich.'  And  the  five 
minutes  she  had  spent  looking  into  an  undyed  and 
unpainted  old  age  had  frightened  her.  She  had 
hated  the  world  she  had  worshipped  so  long.     She 


406  CELIBATES. 

had  hated  all  things,  and  wished  herself  out  of  sight 
of  all  things.  That  she  who  had  been  so  young,  so 
beautiful,  so  delightful  to  men,  should  become  old, 
ugly,  and  undesirable.  That  she  should  one  day 
be  like  Lady  Castlerich !  That  such  things  should 
happen  to  others  were  well  enough ;  that  they  should 
happen  to  her  seemed  an  unspeakable  and  revolting 
cruelty.  And  it  was  at  that  moment  that  her  hus- 
band had  sent  for  her.  He  had  told  her  she  must 
give  up  her  lover  for  her  daughter's  sake.  Should 
she  do  this  ?  Could  she  do  this .'  She  did  not 
know.  But  this  she  did  know,  that  the  present 
was  not  the  time  to  speak  to  her  of  it.  Give  him 
up,  hand  him  over  to  that  horrid  Mrs.  Priestly,  who 
was  trying  all  she  could  to  get  him.  Whatever 
else  might  be,  that  should  not  be.  .  .  .  She  loved 
her  daughter,  and  would  do  her  duty  by  her  daugh- 
ter, but  they  must  not  ask  too  much  of  her.  .  .  . 
She  had  lost  her  temper,  she  had  said  things  that 
she  regretted  saying ;  but  what  matter,  what  did  the 
poor  Major  matter  —  a  poor,  mad  thing  like  him.' 

These  were  the  thoughts  that  filled  Mrs.  Lahens' 
mind  while  Lilian  sang.  The  purity  of  Lilian's 
voice  was  bitterness  to  Mr^.  Lahens,  and  it  was  bit- 
terness to  remember  that  St.  Clare  loved  that  face. 
For  no  one  now  loved  her  face  except  perhaps  Chad, 
and  they  wanted  her  to  give  him  up.     It  was  the 


AGNES  LAHENS.  4O7 

knowledge  that  the  time  of  her  youth  was  at  an  end 
that  forced  Mrs.  Lahens  to  say  that  Lilian  sang  out 
of  tune,  and  to  revive  an  old  scandal  concerning  her. 
'Surely,  mother,'  said  Agnes,  'all  you  say  did  not 
happen  to  the  young  girl  who  has  just  left  the 
room  ? ' 


III. 


Through  the  house  in  Grosvenor  Street  men  were 
always  coming  and  going.  Quite  a  number  of  men 
seemed  to  have  acquired  the  right  of  taking  their 
meals  there.  When  Lord  Chadwick  absented  him- 
self he  explained  his  enforced  absence  from  the 
table  ;  and  Agnes  noticed  that  while  Lord  Chadwick 
addressed  her  mother  openly  as  Olive,  Mr.  Moulton 
did  so  surreptitiously,  in  a  whisper,  or  when  none 
but  their  intimate  friends  were  present. 

They  rarely  assembled  less  than  six  or  seven  to 
lunch  ;  after  lunch  they  went  to  the  drawing-room, 
and  the  eternal  discussion  on  the  relations  of  the 
sexes  was  only  interrupted  by  the  piano.  St.  Clare 
played  better  than  Lord  Chadwick,  but  Mrs.  Lahens 
preferred  Lord  Chadwick  to  accompany  her.  He 
followed  her  voice,  always  making  the  most  of  it. 
At  five  o'clock  the  ladies  had  tea,  very  often  the 
men  chose  brandies  and  sodas;  cigarettes  were  per- 
mitted, and  in  these  influences  all  the  scandals  of  the 
fair  ran  glibly  from  the  tongue,  and  surprising  were 
the  imaginations  of  Mrs.  Lahens'  scandalous  brain. 

408 


AGNES   LAHENS. 


409 


The  reserve  that  Agnes*  innocence  imposed  on 
the  wit  of  the  various  narratives,  and  on  the  phi- 
losophy of  the  comments  often  became  painfully 
irksome,  and  on  noticing  Harding's  embarrassments 
Mrs.  Lahens  would  suggest  that  Agnes  went  to  her 
room.  Agnes  gladly  availed  herself  of  the  permis- 
sion, and  without  the  slightest  admission  to  herself 
that  she  hated  the  drawing-room.  Such  admission 
would  be  to  impugn  her  mother's  conduct,  and 
Agnes  was  far  too  good  a  little  girl  to  do  that. 
She  preferred  to  remember  that  she  liked  her  own 
room  :  her  mother  let  her  have  a  fire  there  all  day ; 
it  was  a  very  comfortable  room  and  she  was  never 
lonely  when  she  was  alone.  She  had  her  books, 
and  there  were  the  dear  sisters  she  had  left,  to  think 
about.  Besides,  she  would  meet  the  men  again  at 
dinner,  so  it  would  be  just  as  well  to  save  her  little 
store  of  conversation.  She  did  not  want  to  appear 
more  foolish  and  ignorant  than  she  could  help. 

After  dinner,  Mrs.  Lahens  and  Lilian  Dare  went 
off  somewhere  in  a  hansom.  They  often  went  to 
the  theatre.  Sometimes  Agnes  went  with  them. 
She  had  been  twice  to  the  theatre.  She  had  been 
thrilled  by  a  melodrama  and  pleased  by  an  operetta. 
But  the  rest  of  the  party,  mother,  Mr.  Moulton, 
Lilian,  and  Mr.  St.  Clare  had  declared  that  both 
pieces  were  very  bad — very  dull. 


4IO  CELIBATES. 

But  they  were  all  anxious  to  see  a  comedy  about 
which  every  one  was  talking ;  they  were  certain  that 
they  would  be  amused  by  it ;  and  there  was  some 
discussion  whether  Agnes  should  be  taken,  Agnes 
instantly  withdrew  from  the  discussion.  She  did 
not  care  to  go,  she  felt  she  was  not  wanted,  and 
she  even  suspected  that  she  would  not  like  the 
play.  So  it  was  just  as  well  that  she  was  not  going. 
But  after  dinner  it  was  decided  that  she  was  to  go. 
Lord  Chadwick  was  with  them ;  Agnes  had  never 
seen  him  more  attentive  to  her  mother,  and  Mr. 
St.  Clare  was  absorbed  in  Lilian.  She  had,  Agnes 
heard  her  mother  say,  succeeded  in  making  him  so 
jealous  that  he  had  asked  her  to  marry  him.  But 
Mrs.  Lahens  did  not  think  that  Lilian  would  marry 
him ;  nowadays  girls  in  society  did  not  often  marry 
their  lovers  ;  they  knew  that  the  qualities  that  charm 
in  a  lover  are  out  of  place  in  a  husband. 

Agnes  sat  in  the  back  of  the  box  and  wondered 
why  Lilian's  refusal  to  marry  St.  Clare  had  made  no 
difference  in  his  affection,  nor  in  hers ;  they  seemed 
as  intimate  as  ever,  and  Agnes  could  hear  them  plan- 
ning a  rendezvous.  Lilian  was  going  south,  but  St. 
Clare  was  to  meet  her  in  Paris.  Agnes  wondered  — 
a  thought  she  did  not  like  crossed  her  mind ;  she 
put  it  instantly  aside  and  bent  her  attention  on  the 
play. 


AGNES  LAHENS.  4II 

There  was  a  great  deal  in  it  that  she  did  not 
understand,  or  that  she  only  understood  vaguely. 
She  did  seem  to  wish  to  understand  it.  But  the 
others  listened  greedily,  as  well  they  might,  for  the 
conversation  on  the  stage  was  like  the  conversation 
in  the  Grosvenor  Street  drawing-room,  as  like  as 
if  a  phonograph  was  repeating  it. 

'  I  should  not  make  such  a  fuss  if  I  heard  that 
my  dear  Major  had ' 

Agnes  did  not  hear  the  rest  of  the  sentence. 

'If  I  were  to  revenge  myself  on  you,  Lilian.' 

'  You  had  better  not.  .  .  .  Besides,  there  is 
nothing  to  revenge.' 

*  Isn't  there,'  said  St.  Clare,  and  his  face  grew 
suddenly  grave. 

'You  are  my  first  and  you'll  be  my  last,'  Agnes 
heard  her  whisper,  and  she  saw  St.  Clare  look  at 
her  incredulously. 

'You  don't  believe  me.  Well,  I  don't  care  what 
you  believe,'  and  she  turned  her  back  on  him  and 
listened  to  the  play. 

And  when  the  play  was  done  Agnes  went  home  in 
a  hansom,  sitting  between  her  mother  and  Lord 
Chadwick.  St.  Clare  and  Lilian  followed  in  another 
hansom,  and  the  two  hansoms  drew  up  together 
in  Grosvenor  Street.  After  the  theatre  there  was 
always   supper,  and  Agnes   knew   that   they  would 


412  CELIBATES. 

sit  talking  till  one  or  two  in  the  morning.  She  was 
not  hungry  ;  she  was  tired ;  she  asked  if  she  might 
go  to  her  room  ;  they  were  all  glad  to  excuse  her ; 
and  she  ran  up  to  her  room  and  closed  the  door. 
She  threw  off  her  opera  cloak  hastily,  and  then  stood 
looking  into  the  fire.  Suddenly  her  brain  filled  with 
thoughts  which  she  could  not  repress,  and  involun- 
tary sensation  crowded  upon  her.  There  was  the 
vivid  sensation  of  her  mother's  painted  face ;  there 
was  the  sensation  of  her  father —  his  strange  clothes, 
his  shy,  pathetic  face.  .  .  .  She  preferred  to  think 
of  her  father,  and  she  asked  herself  why  he  did  not 
go  to  the  theatre  with  them  ;  why  he  did  not  appear 
oftener  at  meals.  His  food  was  generally  taken  to 
him.  Where  did  he  live  }  Up  that  narrow  flight  of 
stairs  ?  She  had  seen  him  run  up  those  stairs  in 
strange  haste,  as  if  he  didn't  wish  to  be  seen,  like 
a  servant — an  under  servant  whose  presence  in  the 
front  of  the  house  is  discrepant. 

Suddenly  Agnes  felt  that  she  was  very  unhappy, 
and  she  unlaced  her  bodice  quickly.  The  action  of 
unlacing  distracted  her  thoughts.  She  would  not 
go  to  bed  yet.  She  took  a  chair,  and  sat  down  in 
front  of  the  fire,  thinking.  The  convent  appeared 
to  her  clear  and  distinct  in  all  its  quiet  life  of  happy 
devotion  and  innocent  recreation.  She  remembered 
the   pleasure   she  used  to  take  in  the  work  of  the 


AGNES  LAHENS.  413 

sacristy,  in  laying  out  the  vestments  for  the  priest, 
for  Father  White ;  and  in  the  games  at  ball  in  the 
garden  with  those  dear  nuns.  She  remembered 
them  all ;  and,  seen  through  the  tender  atmosphere 
of  sorrow,  they  seemed  dearer  than  ever  they  had 
done  before.  How  happy  she  had  been  with  them ; 
she  did  not  expect  ever  to  be  so  happy  again.  The 
world  was  so  lonely,  so  indifferent.  She  was  very 
unhappy.  .  .  .  And  her  life  seemed  so  fragile  that 
the  least  touch  would  break  it.  Her  tears  flowed 
as  from  a  crystal,  and  they  did  not  cease  until  the 
silence  in  the  street  allowed  her  to  hear  her  father's 
quick  steps  pacing  it.  She  could  hear  his  steps 
coming  from  Grosvenor  Square.  Her  poor  father ! 
Every  night  it  was  the  same  ceaseless  pacing  to 
and  fro.  She  had  heard  her  mother  say  that  he 
sometimes  walked  till  three  in  the  morning.  She 
had  watched  him  a  night  or  two  ago  out  of  her 
window.  It  was  freezing  hard,  and  he  had  on  only 
an  old  grey  suit  of  clothes  buttoned  tightly,  and 
a  comforter  round  his  neck.  Her  father's  subor- 
dination in  the  house  was  one  of  the  mysteries 
which  confronted  Agnes.  She  did  not  understand, 
but  she  knew  by  instinct  that  her  father  was  not 
happy,  and  her  unhappiness  went  out  to  his.  She 
pitied  him,  she  longed  to  make  him  happier. 
Others   might  think  him    strange,   but   she   under- 


414 


CELIBATES. 


Stood  him.  Their  talk  was  strange  to  her,  not  his. 
Last  Sunday  he  had  taken  her  to  mass,  and  they 
had  walked  in  the  park  afterwards,  and  he  had  been 
happy  until  they  met  Mr.  Moulton.  A  little  later 
they  had  met  her  mother  and  Lord  Chadwick. 
Mr.  St.  Clare  and  Miss  Lilian  Dare  had  come  to 
lunch.  She  had  seen  no  more  of  her  father  that 
day.  She  had  hoped  that  Father  White  would 
come  and  see  her,  but  he  had  not  come  ;  she  had 
sat  in  her  room  alone,  and  after  dinner  her  mother 
had  scolded  her  because  she  did  not  talk  to  Lord 
Chiselhurst,  an  old  man  who  had  talked  to  her  in 
a  loud  rasping  voice.  He  was  overpowering ;  her 
strength  had  given  way,  she  had  fainted,  and  she 
had  been  carried  out  of  the  room.  When  she 
opened  her  eyes  St.  Clare  was  standing  by  her.  .  .  . 
She  was  glad  it  was  he  and  not  Lord  Chiselhurst 
who  had  carried  her  out. 

But  they  would  not  let  her  back  to  the  convent 
before  six  months.  She  had  been  a  week  at  home, 
and  it  had  seemed  a  century.  The  time  would 
never  pass.  She  did  not  think  she  would  be  able 
to  endure  it  for  six  months.  Her  father  did  not 
like  her  to  go  back.  Was  it  not  her  duty  to 
remain  by  him  ?  He  was  as  unhappy  as  she, 
and  she  was  very  unhappy.  Tears  streamed  down 
her    cheeks,  and  she  cried  until    her    tears  were 


AGNES   LAHENS.  415 

interrupted  by  the  sound  of  her  father's  latch- 
key. 

She  listened  to  his  footsteps  as  he  came  upstairs. 
When  he  arrived  on  her  landing,  instead  of  going 
to  the  end  of  the  passage,  and  up  the  staircase, 
he  stopped ;  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  hesitating 
about  something.  Agnes  wondered,  and  hoped 
he  was  coming  to  see  her.  A  moment  after  he 
knocked. 

*Is  that  you,  father?' 

'Yes.' 

'Then  wait  a  moment.* 

She  slipped  her  arms  into  her  dressing-gown 
and  opened  the  door  to  him. 

'  It  is  nice  and  snug  here,'  he  said,  coming 
towards  the  fire  —  'nice  and  snug.  But  bitterly 
cold  in  the  street ;  I  could  not  keep  warm, 
yet  I  walked  at  the  rate  of  five  miles  an 
hour.  I  ran  round  Grosvenor  Square,  but  the 
moment  I  stopped  running  I  began  to  get  cold 
again.  I  couldn't  keep  up  the  circulation  any- 
how.' 

'Then  sit  down  and  warm  yourself,  father.' 

*  No  thank  you,  I  like  standing  up  best.  I'll 
just  stop  a  minute.  I  hope  I  am  not  in  the  way ; 
tell  me  if  I  am.' 

*In  the  way,  father;   what  do  you  mean.^' 


4l6  CELIBATES. 

'Nothing,  dear,  I  only  thought.  Well,  I'll  just 
get  the  cold  out  of  my  bones  before  I  go  up 
to  my  room.  It  is  cold  up  there,  I  can  tell 
you.' 

The  girl's  keen,  passionate  eyes  looking  out  of  a 
grief-worn  face,  and  a  figure  so  thin  that  she  looked 
tall,  contrasted  with  the  little  fat  man  dressed  in 
the  yellow  tweed  suit  buttoned  across  his  rounding 
stomach.  To  see  them  together  by  the  fire  in  the 
bedroom  made  a  strange  and  moving  picture. 
For  the  figures  seemed  united  by  mysterious 
analogies  and  the  fragments  of  bread  and  cheese 
which  the  Major  held  in  his  old  blued  fingers  were 
significant. 

*I  could  hear  them  singing  in  the  drawing- 
room,*  he  said,  'when  I  came  in,  so  I  stepped 
into  the  dining-room.  One  feels  a  bit  hungry 
after  walking.  How  did  you  like  the  play, 
dear.?' 

'Pretty  well,  father,'  she  answered,  and  she 
strove  to  check  the  tears  which  rose  to  her 
eyes. 

'You've  been  grieving,  Agnes.  What  have  you 
been  grieving  for  —  for  your  convent ;  tell  me,  dear  ? 
I  can't  bear  to  see  you  unhappy.' 

'No,  father;  don't  think  of  me.' 

'  Not  think  of  you,  Agnes !     Of  whom  should  I 


AGNES  LAHENS.  417 

think,  then?  Tell  me  all,  everything.  If  you're 
not  happy  here  you  shall  go  back.  I  won't  see 
you  unhappy.  It  is  my  fault;  only  I  thought  that 
you  had  better  come  home  and  see  the  world  first. 
I  had  thought  that  we  might  have  altered  things 
here,  just  for  your  sake.' 

'  But  you,  father,  you're  not  happy  here ;  you 
would  be  still  more  unhappy  if  I  went  back  to  the 
convent.     That  is  true,  isn't  it } ' 

'  Yes,  that  is  true,  dear ;  but  you  must  not  think 
about  me.  There's  no  use  thinking  about  me ;  I'm 
not  worth  thinking  about.' 

'Don't  say  that,  father,  you  mustn't  speak  like 
that ; '  and  unable  to  control  her  feelings  any  longer, 
Agnes  threw  herself  into  her  father's  arms.  And 
she  did  not  speak  until  she  perceived  that  her  father 
was  weeping  with  her. 

*  What  are  you  weeping  for,  father  ? ' 

'  For  you,  dear,  because  you're  not  happy.' 

'There  are  other  reasons,'  she  said,  looking  in- 
quiringly and  tenderly. 

'  No,  dear,  there's  nothing  else  now  in  the  world 
for  me  to  grieve  for.  You  must  go  back  to  the  con- 
vent if  you're  not  happy.' 

'  But  you,  father  ? ' 

*  It  will  be  hard  to  lose  you  .  .  .  things  may  change. 
You  must  have  patience;  wait  a  little  while,  will  you.^' 


41 8  CELIBATES. 

*  Of  course,  father,  as  long  as  you  like,  but  you'll 
come  down  and  talk  to  me  here  ?  * 

*  Yes ;  I  should  have  come  oftener,  but  I  know  that 
I'm  not  clever,  my  conversation  isn't  amusing,  so  I 
stick  at  my  work  up  there.' 

'You  live  up  there?' 

*  Yes ;  you've  not  seen  my  room  —  a  little  room 
under  the  slates  —  something  like  a  monk's  cell. 
I've  often  thought  of  going  into  a  monastery.  I 
daresay  it  is  from  me  that  you  get  the  taste.' 

*  You  live  up  there,  father ;  your  room  is  up  there. 
May  I  go  up  and  see  you  sometimes ;  I  shan't  be 
disturbing  you  at  your  work,  shall  I } ' 

*  No ;  I  should  think  not :  just  fancy  you  wishing 
to  come  to  see  me,  and  up  there  too ! ' 

*  When  may  I  come,  father  ?  When  are  you  least 
busy  ? ' 

'You  can  come  now.' 
'May  I.?' 

*  We  mustn't  make  any  noise  ;  all  the  servants  are 
asleep,'  and  he  held  the  candle  higher  for  her  to  see 
the  last  steps,  and  he  pushed  open  a  door.  '  It  is 
here.' 

It  was  a  little  loft  under  the  roof,  and  the  roof 
slanted  so  rapidly  that  it  was  possible  to  stand  up- 
right only  in  one  part  of  the  room.  There  was  in 
one  comer  a  truckle  bed,  which  Agnes  could  hardly 


AGNES  LAHENS.  419 

believe  her  father  slept  in,  and  in  the  midst  of  the 
uncarpeted  floor  stood  the  type-writing  machine,  the 
working  of  which  the  Major  at  once  explained  to 
Agnes.  He  told  her  how  much  he  had  already 
earned,  and  entered  into  a  calculation  of  the  num- 
ber of  hours  he  would  have  to  work  before  he  could 
pay  o£f  the  debt  he  had  incurred  in  buying  the 
machine.  His  wife  had  advanced  him  the  money  to 
buy  it  —  she  must  be  paid  back.  When  that  was 
done,  he  would  be  able  to  see  ahead,  and  he  looked 
forward  to  the  time  when  he  would  be  independent. 
There  were  other  debts,  but  the  first  debt  was  the 
heaviest.  His  wife  had  advanced  the  money  for 
the  clothes  he  had  worn  at  the  luncheon  party,  and 
there  was  the  furniture  of  his  room.  But  that  could 
not  be  much — the  bed,  well  that  little  iron  framework, 
he  had  borrowed  it ;  it  had  come  from  the  kitchen- 
maid's  room.  She  had  wanted  a  larger  bed. 
*  But,  father,  dear,  you've  hardly  any  bedclothes.' 
'Yes,  I  have,  dear,  I  have  that  overcoat,  and  I 
sleep  very  well  under  it  too.  I  bought  it  from  the 
butler,  I  paid  him  ten  shillings  for  it,  and  I  made 
the  ten  shillings  by  copying.  The  money  ought  to 
have  gone  to  your  mother,  but  I  had  to  have  some- 
thing to  cover  me ;  it  is  very  cold  up  here,  and  I 
thought  I  had  better  keep  her  waiting  than  contract 
a  new  debt.' 


420  CELIBATES. 

'  But  what  is  mother's  is  yours,  father.' 

*Ah,  I've  heard  people  say  that,  but  it  isn't  true.' 

'How  did  you  lose  your  money,  father.^'  The 
Major  told  her  how  he  had  been  robbed. 

'Then  it  was  not  your  fault,  father.  And  the 
man  who  robbed  you  you  say  is  now ' 

'  A  great  swell,  and  very  highly  thought  of.' 

Agnes  saw  the  coarse  clothes,  the  common 
boots,  and  the  rough  comforter.  And  her  eyes 
wandered  round  the  room  —  the  bare,  miserable 
little  attic  garret  in  which  he  lived.  'And  with 
that  type-writing  machine,'  she  thought,  'he  is  try- 
ing to  redeem  himself  from  the  disrespect  he  has 
fallen  into  because  he  was  robbed  of  his  money.' 

'  It  must  be  getting  very  late,  father ;  I  had 
better  go  to  my  room.  But,  father,  you  are  not 
comfortable  here ;  sleep  in  my  room ;  let  me  sleep 
here.' 

'Let  you  sleep  here,  my  daughter  —  sleep  up 
here  among  the  servants  ! ' 

He  stayed  a  few  minutes  in  her  room,  and 
while  warming  his  hands,  he  said : 

'  Everything  in  the  world  is  dependent  on  money. 
We  can  preserve  neither  our  own  nor  the  respect 
of  others  if  we  have  nothing.  I  have  tried.  It 
wasn't  to  be  done.' 


IV. 

'I'm  not  disturbing  you,  father?' 

'No,  dear:  you  never  disturb  me,'  he  said,  get- 
ting up  from  the  type-writer  and  giving  her  his 
chair.     'But  what  is  the  matter?' 

•Nothing,  at  least  nothing  in  particular.  I  got 
tired  of  the  drawing-room,  and  thought  I'd  like  to 
come  and  sit  with  you.     But  I've  taken  your  chair.' 

'It  doesn't  matter.  I  can  stand,  I've  been  sit- 
ting so  long.' 

'But  no,  father,  I  can't  take  your  chair.  I  don't 
want  to  stop  you  from  working.  I  thought  I'd  like 
to  sit  and  watch  you.     Here,  take  your  chair.' 

'  I  can  get  another.  I  can  get  one  out  of  the  butler's 
room.  He  won't  mind  just  for  once.  He's  a  very 
particular  man.     But  I'll  tell  him  I  took  it  for  you.' 

The  Major  returned  a  moment  after  with  a  chair. 
He  gave  it  to  Agnes  and  resumed  his  place  at  the 
machine. 

'  I  shan't  be  many  minutes  before  I  finish  this 
lot,'  he  said;  'then  we  shall  be  able  to  talk.  I 
promised  to  get  them  finished  this  evening.' 

4*1 


422  CELIBATES. 

She  had  never  seen  a  type-writing  machine  at 
work  before,  and  admired  the  nimbleness  with 
which  his  fingers  struck  the  letters,  and  the  dexter- 
ity with  which  he  passed  fresh  sheets  of  paper 
under  the  roller.  When  he  had  finished  and  was 
gathering  the  sheets  together,  she  said, — 

'How  clever  you  are.' 

'  I  think  I  picked  it  up  pretty  quickly.  I  can  do 
seventy  words  a  minute.  Some  typists  can  do 
eighty,  but  my  fingers  are  too  old  for  that.  Still, 
seventy  is  a  good  average,  and  I  have  hardly  any 
corrections  to  make.  They  are  very  pleased  with 
my  work.  .  .  .  I'll  teach  you  —  you'd  soon  pick 
it  up.' 

'Will  you,  father.'  Then  I  should  be  able  to 
assist  you.  We  could  sit  together,  you  in  that 
corner,  I  in  this.  I  wonder  if  mother  would  buy 
me  a  machine.  I  could  pay  her  back  out  of  the 
money  I  earned,  just  like  you.' 

'Your  mother  would  say  you  were  wasting  your 
time.  You've  come  home,  she'd  say,  to  go  into 
society,  and  not  to  learn  type-writing.' 

'I'm  afraid  she  would.  But  father,  there  is  no 
use  my  going  into  society.  I  shall  never  get  on 
in  society.     Last  night  at  Lord  Chiselhurst's ' 

•  Yes  ;  tell  me  about  it.  You  must  have  enjoyed 
yourself  there.' 


AGNES  LAHENS.  423 

Agnes  did  not  answer  for  a  long  while,  at  last 
she  said, — 

'There's  something,  father,  dear,  that  I  must 
speak  to  you  about.  .  .  .  Mother  thinks  I  ought 
to  marry  Lord  Chiselhurst,  that  I  ought  to  make 
up  to  him  and  catch  him  if  I  can.  She  says  that 
he  likes  very  young  girls,  and  that  she  could  see 
that  he  liked  me.  But,  father,  I  cannot  marry 
him.  He  is — no,  I  cannot  marry  him.  I  do  not 
like  him,  I'm  only  sixteen,  and  he's  forty  or  fifty. 
But  that  isn't  the  reason,  at  least  not  the  only 
reason,  I  don't  want  to  marry  any  one,  and 
mother  doesn't  seem  to  understand  that.  She 
said  if  that  were  so,  she  really  didn't  see  why  I 
left  the  convent.' 

She  was  too  intent  on  what  she  was  saying  to 
notice  the  light  which  flashed  in  the  Major's  eyes. 

'  I  said,  "  Mother,  I  never  wanted  to  leave  the 
convent,  it  was  you  who  wanted  me  home."  "No," 
she  said,  "  it  was  not  I,  it  was  your  father.  But 
now  that  you  are  here  I  should  like  you  to  make 
a  good  marriage."  Then  she  turned  and  kissed 
me.  ...  I  don't  want  to  say  anything  against 
mother ;  she  loves  me,  I'm  sure :  but  we're  so 
different,  I  shall  never  understand  mother,  I  shall 
never  get  on  in  society.  I  cannot,  father,  dear, 
I  cannot,  I  feel  so  far  away ;  I  do  not  know  what 


424  CELIBATES. 

to  say  to  the  people  I  meet.  I  do  not  feel  that 
I  understand  them  when  they  speak  to  me ;  I 
am  far  away,  that  is  what  I  feel ;  I  shall  never  get 
over  that  feeling ;  I  shall  not  succeed,  and  then 
mother  will  get  to  hate  me.  ...  I  am  so  unhappv 
father,  I'm  so  unhappy.' 

Agnes  dropped  on  her  knees,  and  throwing  her 
arms  on  her  father's  shoulder,  she  said : 

*  But,  father,  you're  not  listening.  Listen  to  me, 
I've  only  you.' 

'I'm  thinking.' 

•Of  what.?' 

'Of  many  things.' 

'Poor  father,  you  have  a  great  deal  to  think  of, 
and  I  come  interrupting  your  work.  How  selfish 
I  am.' 

•No,  dear,  you're  not  selfish.  .  .  .  I'm  very  glad 
you  told  me.  So  you  think  you'll  never  get  on  in 
society.' 

*I  don't  think  I'm  suited  for  society.' 

'  I'm  afraid  you  think  that  all  society  is  like  our 
drawing-room  ? ' 

'  How  was  it,  father,  that  our  drawing-room  came 
to  be  what  it  is  ? ' 

*  A  great  deal  of  it  is  my  fault,  dear.  When  I  lost 
my  money  I  got  disheartened,  and  little  by  little 
I  lost  control.     One  day  I  was  told  that  as  I  paid 


AGNES  LAHENS.  425 

for  nothing  I  had  no  right  to  grumble.  Your  mother 
said,  in  reply  to  some  question  about  me,  that  I  was 
"merely  an  expense."  I  believe  the  phrase  was 
considered  very  clever,  it  went  the  round  of  society, 
and  eventually  was  put  into  a  play.  And  that  is 
why  I  told  you  that  money  is  everything,  that  it 
is  difficult  to  be  truthful,  honourable,  or  respect- 
able if  you  have  no  money,  a  little  will  do,  but  you 
must  have  a  little,  if  you  haven't  you  aren't  respect- 
able, you're  nothing,  you  become  like  me,  a  mere 
expense.  .  .  .    I've  borne  it  for  your  sake,  dearest.' 

*  For  my  sake,  father,  what  do  you  mean } ' 

'  Never  mind,  best  not  to  ask.  .  .  .  My  dearest 
daughter,  I  would  bear  it  all  over  again  for  your 
sake.  But  it  is  maddening  work,  it  goes  to  the  head 
at  last.  It  makes  one  feel  as  if  something  was 
giving  way  there,'  he  said,  touching  his  forehead, 
*  it  does  indeed.' 

'  But,  father,  you  mustn't  bear  this  any  longer, 
not  for  my  sake,  father,  no,  not  for  my  sake ;  you 
must  find  some  way  out  of  it.' 

*  I  have  found  a  way  out  of  it.  It  took  me  a  long 
while,  but  I  have  found  the  way — there  it  is,'  he 
said,  pointing  to  the  type-writing  machine.  'They 
don't  suspect  anything,  not  they,  the  fools ;  they 
don't  know  what  is  hanging  over  their  heads.  I'll 
tell  you,  Agnes,  but  you  must  not  breathe  a  word 


426  CELIBATES. 

of  it  to  any  one,  if  you  did,  they  would  take  the 
machine  from  me :  for  they'd  like  me  to  remain 
a  mere  expense.  As  long  as  I'm  that,  they  can  do 
what  they  like,  but  as  soon  as  I  gain  an  indepen- 
dence, as  soon  as  I  am  able  to  pay  for  my  meals,' 
he  whispered,  *I  mean  to  put  my  house  in  order 
But  you  mustn't  breathe  a  word.' 

*  I'll  never  do  anything,  father,  you  ask  me  not 
to  do.' 

*  I  shall  be  able  to  sweep  out  all  those  you  don't 
like.  There  are  too  many  men  hanging  about 
here.?' 

*  Tell  me,  father,  do  you  like  Lord  Chadwick } ' 
The  Major's  face  changed  expression.  '  Have  I 
said  anything  to  wound  you  ? '  she  said,  pressing 
his  hand. 

*  No,  dear.  You  asked  me  if  I  liked  Lord  Chad- 
wick. I  was  thinking.  Somehow  it  seems  to  me 
that  I  rather  like  him,  though  I  have  no  reason 
to  do  so.  He  thinks  me  crazy,  but  so  do  others  ; 
I  know  that  my  conversation  bores  him,  he  always 
tries  to  get  away  from  me,  yet  somehow  it  seems 
to  me  that  I  do  like  him.' 

*  Is  he  a  fast  man,  father,  is  he  like  Lord  Chisel- 
hurst  .? ' 

*  He  is  much  the  same  as  the  other  men  that 
come   here.     I  don't   think    he's   a   bad   man  —  no 


AGNES  LAHENS.  427 

worse  than  other  men.  Is  he  kind  to  you,  dear ; 
tell  me  that ;  do  you  like  him  ? ' 

'Yes,  father;  he  and  Mr.  St.  Clare  are  the  men 
I  like  best  here.  But  why  is  he  here  so  much, 
father,  he's  no  relation.' 

*He  has  dined  and  lunched  here  every  day  for 
the  last  ten  years.     He's  been  an  expense  too.' 

'  Mother  said  he  is  so  poor  that  she  has  often  to 
lend  him  money,' 

*  He  should  have  spent  some  of  the  money  she 
lent  him,  on  a  type-writing  machine,  and  striven  as 
I  do  to  make  an  independence.  When  I've  got 
together  a  little  independence,  when  I  can  pay  for 
my  meals  and  my  clothes,  you  shall  see ;  none  that 
you  dislike  shall  ever  come  here,  dearest.  I'll  put 
my  house  in  order.' 

*  But  that  will  take  a  long  time,  father ;  in  the 
meantime ' 

'What,  dear.?' 

'Mother  will  want  me  to  marry.' 

'They  shall  not  force  you  to  marry,  they  shall 
not  ask  you  to  do  anything  you  do  not  like.  Lord 
Chiselhurst  ought  to  be  ashamed,  a  man  of  his  age 
to  want  to  marry  a  young  girl  like  you.  I  will  go 
and  tell  him  so.' 

The  Major  stood  up,  he  was  pale,  and  Agnes 
noticed  that  his  lips  trembled.. 


428  CELIBATES. 

'  No,  father,'  she  said,  *  do  not  go  to  him ;  I  do 
not  know  that  he  wants  to  marry  me ;  it  is  only 
mother's  idea,  she  may  be  mistaken.' 

'You  shall  not  be  persecuted  by  his  attentions.' 

'  Lord  Chiselhurst  is  a  gentleman,  father.  What- 
ever  his  faults  may  be,  I  feel  sure  when  he  sees 
that  I  do  not  want  him,  that  he  will  cease  to  think 
of  me  .  .  .     Lord  Chiselhurst  is  not  the  worst.' 

'Who,  then,  is  the  worst.?  Who  is  it  that  you 
wish  me  to  rid  you  of  ? ' 

*I  don't  wish  you  to  be  violent,  father,  but  you 
might  hint  to  Mr,  Moulton  that  I  do  not  wish ' 

'  That  man  —  he,  too,  is  merely  an  expense.' 

'  I  am  sure,  father,  that  it  is  not  right  of  him  to 
put  his  arms  round  me  —  he  tried  to  kiss  me.  I  was 
alone  in  the  drawing-room.  And  he  speaks  in  a  way 
that  I  do  not  like  —  I  don't  know.  ...  I  don't  like 
him ;  he  frightens  me.' 

*  Frightens  you !     That  fellow  —  that  fellow  ! ' 
'  Yes  ;   he  asks  me  questions.' 

'  He  never  shall  do  so  again.  Is  he  in  the  draw- 
ing-room > ' 

'  Yes ;  but,  father,  you  cannot  speak  to  him  now, 
there  are  people  in  the  drawing-room.' 

'  I  don't  care  who's  there.' 

*  No,  father,  no  ;  I  beg  of  you.  Mother  will  never 
forgive    me.  .  .  .     Father,    you    mustn't    make    a 


AGNES  LAHENS.  429 

scene.  Father,  you  cannot  go  to  the  drawing-room 
in  those  clothes,'  and  in  desperate  resolve,  Agnes 
threw  herself  between  the  Major  and  the  door, 
pressing  him  back  with  both  hands. 

*  They  think  me  a  sheep,  I  have  been  a  sheep  too 
long,  but  they  shall  see  that  even  the  sheep  will  turn 
to  save  its  lamb  from  the  butcher.  I'll  go  to  them, 
yes,  and  in  these  clothes  —  Agnes,  let  me  go.' 

'  I  want  you  to  speak  to  Mr.  Moulton.  .  .  .  But 
not  now,  this  is  not  the  time.' 

He  tried  to  push  past  her,  but  she  resisted  him, 
and  sat  down  in  front  of  his  type-writing  machine, 
pale  and  exhausted,  the  sweat  pearling  his  bald 
forehead. 

She  tried  to  calm  him  and  to  induce  him  to  under- 
stand the  scandal  he  would  make  if  he  were  to  go 
down  to  the  drawing-room,  dressed  as  he  was.  But 
her  words  did  not  seem  to  reach  the  Major's  brain. 
He  only  muttered  that  the  time  had  come  to  put 
his  house  in  order.  Agnes  answered,  '  Father,  for 
my  sake  .  .  ,  not  now.'  But  he  must  obey  the  idea 
which  pierced  his  brain,  and  before  she  could  prevent 
him  he  slipped  past  her  and  opened  the  door. 

'Oh,  father,  don't,  for  my  sake,  please.' 

His  lips  moved  but  he  did  not  speak. 

'  I  will  not  make  a  scene,'  he  said  at  last. 

'  Father ! ' 


43©  CELIBATES. 

'  I  will  not  make  a  scene,  but  I  must  do  some- 
thing. ...  I  promise  you  that  I  will  not  make 
a  scene,  but  I  must  go  down  to  the  drawing-room 
in  these  clothes.  In  these  clothes,'  he  repeated. 
There  was  something  in  his  look  which  conveyed  a 
sense  of  the  inevitable,  and  Agnes  watched  him 
descend  the  stairs.  She  followed  slowly,  catching  at 
the  banisters  leaning  against  the  wall.  She  noticed 
that  his  step  was  heavy  and  irresolute  and  hoped  he 
would  refrain.     But  he  went  on,  step  after  step. 


V. 


He  had  intended  to  turn  the  entire  crew  out  of 
the  house;  but  Agnes  had  induced  him  to  relin- 
quish this  idea,  and,  as  no  fresh  idea  had  taken  its 
place,  he  entered  the  drawing-room  with  no  more 
than  a  vague  notion  that  he  should  parade  his  old 
clothes,  and  reprove  the  conversation. 

'Olive,  I've  come  down  for  a  cup  of  tea.' 

*I  don't  mind  giving  you  a  cup,'  said  Mrs. 
Lahens,  'but  I  think  you  might  have  taken  the 
trouble  to  change  your  clothes :  that's  hardly  a 
costume  to  receive  ladies  in.  Look  at  him.  Lady 
Castlerich  —  that's  what  I've  to  put  up  with.' 

'Lady  Castlerich  will  excuse  my  clothes.  You 
know,  Lady  Castlerich,  that  I'm  very  poor.  Some 
years  ago  I  lost  my  money,  and  since  then  I've 
been  merely  an  expense.  It  is  most  humiliating 
to  have  to  ask  your  wife  for  twopence  to  take  the 
omnibus.' 

'My  dear  Major,'  said  Harding,  'what  on  earth 
is  the  matter  with  you  ?  You've  been  working  too 
hard.  .  .  .     But,  by  the   way,  I  forgot   to  tell  you 

43« 


432  CELIBATES. 

I've  just  finished  a  novel  which  I  shall  be  glad  if 
you'll  copy  it  for  me.  You  haven't  shown  me 
your  machine.     Come.' 

*I  shall  be  very  glad  to  have  your  work  to  do, 
Harding,  but  I  can't  talk  to  you  about  it  just  at 
present.  You  must  excuse  me,  I've  an  explana- 
tion to  make.  Oh,  do  not  think  of  going,  dear 
Lady  Castlerich,  do  not  let  my  costume  frighten 
you  away.  These  are  my  working  clothes.  The 
last  money  I  took  from  my  wife  was  sixteen 
pounds  to  buy  a  type-writing  machine.  I  made 
five  shillings  last  week,  four  shillings  went  towards 
paying  for  the  machine.  When  I  am  clear  of  that 
debt  I  shall  make  enough  to  pay  for  my  room 
and  my  meals.  I  had  always  intended  then  to 
put  my  house  in  order.' 

'But,  my  dear  Major,'  said  Lady  Castlerich,  try- 
ing to  get  past  him,  'your  house  is  charmin',  the 
drawing-room  is  perfectly  charmin',  I  don't  know  a 
more  charmin'  room.' 

'The  room  is  well  enough,  it  is  what  one  hears 
in  the  room.' 

'Hears  in  the  room!  Major,  I'm  sure  our  con- 
versation has  been  most  agreeable.' 

'You'll  agree  with  me  that  it  is  a  little  hard 
that  my  daughter  should  have  to  sit  in  her  bed- 
room all  day.' 


AGNES  LAHENS.  433 

'But  we  should  be  charmed  to  have  her  here,' 
expostulated  the  old  lady.  '  She  was  here  just 
now,  but  she  ran  away.' 

*Yes;  she  ran  away  from  the  conversation.' 

'  Ran  away  from  the  conversation.  Major !  Now 
what  were  we  talking  about,  Olive  ? ' 

*I  don't  know.  ...  He's  in  one  of  his  mad 
humours,  pay  no  attention  to  him.  Lady  Castle- 
rich,'  said  Mrs.  Lahens. 

*  Perhaps  you  were  talking  about  your  lovers, 
Lady  Castlerich,'  said  the  Major. 

•I'm  sure  I  couldn't  have  been,  for  the  fact  is  I 
don't  remember.' 

*I  really  must  be  going,'  said  Harding;  'good- 
bye, Mrs.  Lahens.  And  now,  Major,  come  with 
me  and  we'll  talk  about  the  typing  of  the  novel.' 

'Later  on,  Harding,  later  on,  I've  to  speak 
about  my  daughter.  There's  so  much  she  doesn't 
understand.  You  know,  Lady  Castlerich,  she  has 
been  very  strictly  brought  up.' 

'  How  very  strange.  I  must  really  be  going. 
Good-bye,  Major,  charmin'  afternoon,  I'm  sure.' 

*  I  hope,*  he  said,  turning  to  Lilian,  '  that  I  can 
congratulate  you  on  your  engagement.?' 

'My  engagement.  With  whom.  .  .  .  Mr.  St. 
Clare.?  What  makes  you  think  that,?  We  are 
not  engaged ;  we're  merely  friends.' 


434  CELIBATES. 

'  It  was  given  out  that  you  were  engaged.  Mr, 
Harding  said  it  was  physically  impossible  for  you 
to  see  more  than  you  did  of  each  other.* 

'My  dear  Major,'  said  Harding,  'you're  mis- 
taken ;  I  never  said  such  a  thing,  I  assure  you ' 

'Physically  impossible,'  giggled  Lady  Castlerich. 
'That's  good.  But  won't  you  see  me  to  my 
carriage,  Mr.  Harding.  Did  you  say  physically 
impossible  ? ' 

The  Major  looked  round,  uncertain  whom  to  ad- 
dress next.  Catching  Mr.  Moulton,  who  was  steal- 
ing past  him,  by  the  arm,  he  said : 

'You,  too,  understand  how  humiliating  it  is  to 
be  a  mere  expense.  Why  don't  you  buy  a  type- 
writing machine.?' 

'  Perhaps  I  shall  .  .  .  the  first  money  I  get,'  Mr. 
Moulton  answered,  and  disengaging  his  arm  he 
hurried  away,  leaving  the  Major  alone  with  his 
wife.  She  sat  in  her  arm-chair  looking  into  the 
fire.  The  Major  waited,  expecting  her  to  speak, 
but  she  said  not  a  word. 

'I  want  to  talk  to  you,  Olive.* 

'  To  hear  what  I  have  to  say  about  your  conduct, 
I  suppose.     I  have  nothing  to  say.* 

'  I'm  not  clever,  like  you,  and  don't  say  the  right 
thing,  but  something  had  to  be  done,  and  I  did  it 
as  best  I  could.' 


AGNES  LAHENS.  435 

'You're  madder  than  I  thought  you  were.' 

*  Something  had  to  be  done  ? ' 

*  Something  had  to  be  done  !  What  do  you  mean  ? 
But  it  doesn't  matter.' 

'Yes,  it  does,  Olive.     I  want  you  to  understand 
that  Agnes  must  be  saved.' 
'  Saved ! ' 

*  Yes,  saved  from  this  drawing-room ;  you  know 
that  it  is  a  pollution  for  one  like  her.' 

'  I  remember,'  said  Mrs.  Lahens,  turning  suddenly, 
'that  you  said  something  about  putting  your  house 
in  order.  I  didn't  understand  what  you  meant. 
Did  you  mean  this  house.'* 

'  Yes.* 

'But  you  forget  that  this  is  my  house.  So  you 
intend  to  rescue  Agnes  from  this  drawing-room. 
You  can  go,  both  of  you.  .  .  .  I'll  have  both 
of  you  put  out  of  doors ! ' 

'  You'll  not  turn  your  daughter  out  of  doors  ! ' 

'If  my  drawing-room  is  not  good  enough  for  her, 
let  her  go  back  to  the  convent.  You  took  her  from 
me  years  ago ;  you  never  thought  I  was  good  enough 
for  your  daughter.' 

'  There  was  Chadwick.  I  begged  of  you  to  break 
with  him  for  the  sake  of  your  daughter.  You  might 
have  done  that.  I  made  sacrifices  for  her;  I  en- 
dured this  house;  I  accepted  your  lover.' 


436  CELIBATES. 

*  Accepted  my  lover !  You  did  not  expect  a 
woman  to  be  faithful  to  a  man  like  you.  .  .  .  You 
didn't  think  that  possible,  did  you?' 

*  What  was  I  to  do ;  what  can  a  man  do  who  is 
dependent  on  his  wife  for  his  support.^  Besides, 
there  was  more  than  myself  to  consider,  there 
was  Agnes ;  had  I  divorced  you  she  would  have 
suffered.' 

'Of  course  you  never  thought  of  yourself  —  of 
this  house ;  I  daresay  you  look  upon  yourself  quite 

as  a  hero.     Well,  upon  my  word '     Mrs.  Lahens 

laughed. 

*I  don't  think  I  thought  of  myself.  I  daresay 
the  world  put  the  worst  construction  on  my  conduct. 
But  you  can't  say  that  I  took  much  advantage  of 
the  fact  that  you  were  willing  to  let  me  live  in 
the  house.  I  gave  up  my  room  —  I  live  in  the 
meanest  room  —  the  kitchen-maid  complained  about 
it ;  she  left  it ;  there  was  no  use  for  it.  What  I 
eat  does  not  cost  you  much ;  I  eat  very  little.  Of 
course  I  know  that  that  little  is  too  much.  Mean- 
time,   I'm  trying  to   create   a  little   independence.' 

'And  meantime  you  shall  respect  my  drawing- 
room.  .  .  .  But  the  mischief  is  done ;  you  have 
insulted  my  friends ;  you  have  forced  them  out  of 
my  house.  The  story  will  be  all  over  Mayfair  to- 
morrow.    It  will  be  said  that  the  sheep  has  turned 


AGNES  LAHENS.  437 

at  last.  Nothing  is  to  be  gained  by  keeping  you 
any  longer.' 

'But  Agnes?' 

'Agnes  will  remain  with  me.  .  .  .  You  don't 
propose  to  take  her  with  you,  do  you  ? ' 

'  I  couldn't  support  her,  at  least  not  yet  awhile, 
not  even  if  Harding  gave  me  the  novel  he  was 
speaking  of  to  copy.' 

'  Support  her !  .  .  .  Harding  give  you  his  novel 
to  copy.  .  ,  .  You  poor  fool,  you  could  not  spell 
the   words.' 

'True,  that  is  my  difficulty.  .  .  .  But  Agnes 
cannot  remain  here  without  me.  That  is  impossible. 
To  remain  here,  seeing  your  friends  in  this  drawing- 
room  !  things  to  go  on  as  they  are !  that  child ! 
Olive,  you  must  see  that  that  is  impossible.  It 
would  be  worse  than  before.' 

'If  I  refuse  to  have  you  here  any  longer,  you've 
no  one  but  yourself  to  thank.' 

'  Olive,  remember  that  she  is  our  child ;  we  owe 
her  something.  I  have  suffered  a  great  deal  for  her 
sake ;  you  know  I  have.  Do  you  now  suffer  some- 
thing. You'll  be  better  for  it ;  you'll  be  happier.  I 
am  in  a  way  happier  for  what  I  have  suffered.' 

'  You  mean  if  I  consent  to  let  you  stay  here } ' 

'  I  was  not  thinking  of  that ;  that  is  not  enough.' 

•  Not   enough !     Well,   what    is   enough  .-•     But    I 


438  CELIBATES. 

cannot  listen,'  said  Mrs.  Lahens,   speaking  half  to 
herself.     '  I'm  keeping  him  waiting.     What  a  fright 
I  shall  be!     Our  evening  will  be  spoilt,' 
'  Where  are  you  going } ' 

*  I'm  going  to  dine  with  Chad,  if  you  wish  to 
know. ' 

'You  shall  not  go  to  Lord  Chadwick,'  said  the 
Major,  walking  close  to  his  wife.  Mrs.  Lahens 
turned  from  the  glass.  '  You  shall  not  go,'  repeated 
the  Major.  'Go  at  your  peril.'  .  .  .  They  stood 
looking  at  each  other  a  moment  with  hatred  in  their 
eyes.  Then  with  tears  in  his  voice,  the  Major  said, 
'  For  our  daughter's  sake  give  him  up.  She  already 
suspects,  and  it  makes  her  so  unhappy.  She  is  so 
good,  so  innocent.  Think  of  what  a  shock  it  would 
be  to  her  if  she  were  to  discover  the  truth.  Give  up 
Chadwick  for  her  sake.  You'll  never  regret.  One 
day  or  other  it  will  have  to  end ;  if  you  let  it  end 
now  you'll  repair  the  past.* 

*  Her  innocence  !  her  goodness  !  Had  I  married 
another  man  I  might  have  been  a  virtuous  woman. 
.  .  .  The  world  asks  too  much  virtue  from  women. 
If  I  had  not  had  Chad  I  should  have  gone  mad  long 
ago.  He's  been  very  good  to  me :  why  should  I 
give  him  up }  For  why }  What  has  my  daughter 
done  for  me  that  I  should  give  up  all  I  have  in 
the  world ;  and  what  purpose  would  be  served  if  I 


AGNES  LAHENS.  439 

did  ?  So  that  she  should  preserve  her  illusions  a 
few  months  longer.  That  is  all.  If  she  remain  in 
the  world  she  must  learn  what  the  world  is.  If  she 
doesn't  want  to  learn  what  the  world  is,  the  sooner 
she  goes  back  to  the  convent  the  better.  And  now 
I  must  go ;  I'm  late.' 

'  You  shall  not  go.  You  shall  see  no  more  of 
Lord  Chadwick.  You  shall  receive  no  more  of 
your  infamous  friends.  My  daughter's  mind  shall 
not  be  polluted.' 

'  Don't  talk  nonsense,  Major.  Let  me  go,  or  I 
shall  have  you  turned  out  of  the  house.  I  don't 
want  to,  but  you'll  force  me  to.  .  .  .  Now  let 
me  go.' 

The  Major  took  his  wife  by  the  throat,  and 
repeated  his  demand. 

'Say  that  this  adultery  shall  cease,  or  else ' 

'Or  else  you'll  kill  me.'' 

'  Father ! ' 

Agnes  had  stolen  downstairs.  She  had  waited 
a  few  moments  on  the  threshold  before  she  entered 
the  room  necessity  ordained  .  .  .  and  she  stood 
pale  and  courageous  between  her  parents. 

Mrs.  Lahens  sat  down  on  the  ottoman,  and,  when 
the  servant  arrived  with  the  lamp,  Agnes  saw  that 
her  mother,  notwithstanding  her  paint,  was  like 
death.     The  servant  looked  under  the  lamp's  shade 


44©  CELIBATES. 

and  turned  up  the  wicks  ;  he  drew  the  curtains, 
and  at  last  the  wide  mahogany  door  swept  noise- 
lessly over  the  carpet,  and  the  three  were  alone, 

'I'm  sorry,  Agnes,  that  you  were  present  just 
now.  Such  a  scene  never  happened  before.  I 
assure  you.  A  point  arose  between  us,  and  I'm 
afraid  we  both  forgot  ourselves.  It  would  be  better 
if  you  went  upstairs.' 

'I  see,'  said  Mrs.  Lahens,  'that  you  understand 
each  other.     It  is  I  who  had  better  go.' 

*No,  mother,  don't  go.  I  would  not  have  you 
think  that  —  that  —  oh,  how  am  I  to  say  it  ? ' 

Mrs.  Lahens  looked  at  her  daughter  —  a  strange 
look  it  was,  of  surprise  and  inquiry. 

'Mother,  I  have  been  but  an  apple  of  discord 
thrown  between  you.  .  .  .  But,  indeed,  it  was  not 
my  fault.     Mother,  dear,  it  was  not  my  fault.' 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  as  if  Mrs.  Lahens  were 
going  to  take  her  daughter  in  her  arms.  But  some 
thought  or  feeling  checked  the  impulse,  and  she 
said : 

'Talk  to  your  father,  Agnes.     I  cannot  stay.' 

'You  shall  not  go,'  said  the  Major,  laying  his  hand 
on  her  arm.     '  You  shall  not  go  to  Lord  Chad  wick.' 

'  Oh,  father ;  oh,  father,  I  beg  of  you.  ...  It 
is  with  gentleness  and  love  that  we  overcome  our 
troubles.     Let  mother  go  if  she  wants  to  go.' 


AGNES  LAHENS.  44 1 

The  Major  took  his  hand  from  his  wife's  arm,  and 
Mrs.   Lahens  said : 

*  You're  a  good  girl,  Agnes.  I  wish  you  had  always 
remained  with  me.  If  your  father  had  not  taken  you 
from  me,  I  might ' 

She  left  the  room  hurriedly,  and,  a  few  moments 
after,  they  heard  her  drive  away  in  a  cab. 
'Father,  I  know  everything.' 

*  You  overheard .? ' 

'Yes,  father.  As  your  voices  grew  more  angry  I 
crept  downstairs.  I  heard  about  Lord  Chadwick. 
You  must  have  patience ;   you  must  be  gentle.' 

'Agnes,  I  have  been  patient,  I  have  been  gentle. 
That  was  my  mistake.' 

*  Perhaps,  father,  it  would  have  been  better  if  you 
had  acted  differently  at  first,  a  long  time  ago.  But 
I'm  sure  that  the  present  is  no  time  for  anger.  I 
know  that  it  was  on  my  account,  that  it  was  to 
save  me,  that  you  —  that  you  —  you  know  what  I 
mean.' 

*  You're  right,  Agnes.  My  mistake  began  long 
ago.  But  you  must  not  judge  me  harshly.  You  do 
not  know,  you  cannot  realise  what  my  position  has 
been  in  this  house.  I  could  do  nothing.  When  a 
man  has  lost  his  money ' 

'  I  do  not  judge  you,  father,  nor  mother  either.  It 
is  not  for  me  to  judge.     I  am  ignorant  of  the  world 


442 


CELIBATES. 


and  wish  to  remain  ignorant  of  it.  I  always  felt  that 
it  would  be  best  so,  now  I  am  sure  of  it.' 

'Agnes,  it  is  too  soon  for  you  to  judge.  This 
house ' 

'  She's  gone  to  meet  that  man  ;  but  she  shall  not. 
She  shall  not !  I  swear  it !  .  .  .  That  man,  I'll  take 
him  by  the  throat.  I  ought  to  have  done  so  long 
ago ;  but  it  is  not  too  late.* 

*  Father,  let  us  say  a  prayer  together ;  I  have  not 
said  one  with  you  since  I  was  a  little  child.  Will 
you  kneel  down  with  me  and  say  a  prayer  for 
mother  ? ' 

She  stretched  out  her  hand  to  him,  and  they 
knelt  down  together  in  the  drawing-room.  Agnes 
said  : 

*  Oh,  my  God,  we  offer  up  an  our  Our  Father  and 
Hail  Mary  that  thou  may'st  give  us  all  grace  to 
overcome  temptation.' 

The  Major  repeated  the  prayers  after  his  daughter, 
and,  when  they  rose  from  their  knees,  Agnes  said : 

'Father,  I  never  asked  a  favour  of  you  before. 
You'll  not  refuse  me  this  ? ' 

The  Major  looked  at  his  daughter  tenderly, 
*  You  will  never  again  be  violent.  You  promise  me 
this,  father.  I  shall  be  miserable  if  you  don't. 
You  promise  me  this,  father.?  You  cannot  refuse 
me.     It  is  my  first  request  and  ray  last.' 


AGNES  LAHENS.  443 

The  Major's  face  was  full  of  tears.  There  were 
none  on  Agnes'  face ;  but  her  eyes  shone  with 
anticipation  and  desire. 

'  Promise,'  she  said,  *  promise.* 

'  I  promise.' 

'And  when  the  temptation  comes  you'll  remem- 
ber your  promise  to   me  ? ' 

*Yes,  Agnes,  I'll  remember.' 

The  strain  that  the  extortion  of  the  promise  had 
put  upon  her  feelings  had  exhausted  the  girl ;  she 
then  pressed  her  hands  to  her  eyes  and  dropped  on 
the  ottoman.  For  a  long  while  father  and  daughter 
sat  opposite  each  other  without  speaking.  At  last 
the  Major  said : 

'  I  must  go  out ;    I  cannot  stop  here.' 

*  But,  father,  remember  .  .  .  you  are  not  going 
to  mother.' 

'No;  only  for  a  trot  round  the  Square.' 

She  pressed  her  hand  to  her  forehead ;  she  felt 
her  eyes,  they  were  dry  and  burning ;  and  it  was 
not  until  the  servant  announced  Father  White 
that  her  tears  flowed. 


VI. 


'Then  you've  heard/  said  Agnes,  coming  forward 
and  taking  the  priest's  hand.  '  How  did  you  hear  ? 
Did  you  meet  father.?' 

*No,  my  dear  child,  I've  heard  nothing.  I  did 
not  meet  your  father.  I  was  in  London  to-day  for 
the  first  time  since  I  last  saw  you.  I  ought  to 
have  called  earlier,  but  I  was  detained.  ...  I'm 
afraid  I'm  late,  it  must  be  getting  late.  It  must 
be  getting  near  your  dinner  hour.' 

•  I  see  that  you  know  nothing,  and  that  I  shall 
have  to  tell  you  all.' 

*Yes,  my  dear  child,  tell  me  everything.'  Agnes 
sat  on  the  ottoman.  Father  White  took  a  chair  near 
her.  *  Tell  me  everything.  I  see  you've  been 
weeping.     You're  not  happy  at  home  then  } ' 

'  Oh,  Father ;  happy !  if  you  only  knew,  if  you 
only  knew.  ...  I  cannot  tell  you.'  Then  seeing 
in  the  priest's  arrival  a  means  of  escape  from 
the  danger  of  her  position  between  her  father  and 
mother,  she  cried,  *  You  must  take  me  back  to  the 
convent  to-night.     I  cannot  meet  mother  when  she 

444 


AGNES  LAHENS.  445 

comes  home.  Something  dreadful  might  happen. 
Father  White,  you  must  take  me  back  to  the 
convent,  say  that  you  will,  say  that  you  will' 

'My  dear  child,  you  are  agitated,  calm  yourself. 
What  has  happened  ?    Tell  me.' 

*  It  is  too  long  a  story,  it  is  too  dreadful.  I  can- 
not tell  it  all  to  you  now.  Later  I'll  tell  you.  Take 
me  back  to  the  convent.  I  cannot  meet  mother. 
I  cannot.' 

*  But  what  has  your  mother  done ;  has  she  been 
cruel  to  you  —  has  she  struck  you  ? ' 

*  Struck  me !  if  that  were  all !  that  would  be 
nothing.' 

The  priest's  face  turned  a  trifle  paler.  He  felt 
that  something  dreadful  had  happened.  The  girl 
was  overcome ;  her  nerves  had  given  way,  and  she 
could  hardly  speak.  It  were  not  well  to  insist  that 
she  should  be  put  to  the  torture  of  a  complete 
narrative. 

'Where  is  your  father.^'  he  said.  'Major  Lahens 
will  tell  me,  he  knows,  I  suppose,  all  about  it.  Calm 
yourself,  Agnes.  Tell  me  where  your  father  is,  that 
will  be  sufficient.' 

*  Father  is  walking  round  the  Square.  But  don't 
leave  me,  don't,  I  cannot  remain  in  this  room 
alone,'  she  said,  looking  round  with  a  frightened  air. 

'  I'll  wait  till  he  comes  in.' 


446  CEUBATES. 

*He  may  not  come  in  for  hours.  Perhaps  he'll 
never  come  back,  anything  may  happen.' 

'If  he's  walking  round  the  Square  he  can  be 
sent  for.' 

'No,  Father  White.  I'll  be  calm.  I'll  tell  you. 
I  must  tell  you,  but  you'll  not  desert  me,  you'll  not 
leave  me  here  to  meet  mother.' 

'Don't  you  think,  my  dear  child,  that  it  would  be 
better  that  I  should  see  your  father,  that  he  should 
tell  me.'' 

'No,  I'd  sooner  tell  you  myself.  Father  could 
not  explain.  To-morrow,  or  after  in  the  convent 
I'll  tell  you.     I'll  tell  you  and  the  Mother  Abbess.' 

'You  must  see,  Agnes,  that  I  cannot  take  you 
away  from  your  father's  house  without  his  per- 
mission.' 

'It  is  not  father's  house.' 

'Well,  your  mother's  house.' 

'That  is  quite  different.  I  see  that  I  must  tell 
you  —  of  course  I  must.' 

'Surely,  Agnes,  it  would  be  better  to  postpone 
telling  me  till  to-morrow,  you're  tired,  you've  been 
crying,  you'll  be  able  to  tell  me  better  in  the 
morning.     I'll  call  here  early  to-morrow  morning.' 

*  No ;  you  must  take  me  back  to  the  convent 
to-night,  I  cannot  remain  here.  .  .  .  You'll  agree 
with  me  that  I  cannot  when   I   tell  you  all.'  .  .  . 


AGNES   LAHENS.  '  447 

Agnes  looked  at  Father  White,  she  was  no  longer 
crying,  she  had  regained  her  self  possession  in  the 
necessity  of  the  moment,  and  she  began  with  hardly 
a  tremble  In  her  voice, 

'  Mother  is  not  — is  not  —  I'm  afraid  she  is  not  — 
But  how  am  I  to  accuse  my  own  mother.' 

*  I'm  sure  now,  my  dear  child,  that  I  was  right 
when  I  suggested  that  I  should  speak  to  Major 
Lahens.' 

'Because  you  don't  know  the  circumstances,  nor 
do  you  know  my  father.  No,  it  must  be  I.  I  must 
tell  you.' 

There  was  a  note  of  conviction  in  Agnes'  voice 
which  silenced  further  protestation,  and  Father 
White  listened. 

*  You  see,  this  house  and  everything  here  belongs 
to  mother.  It  is  she  who  pays  for  everything. 
Father  lost  all  his  money  some  years  ago;  he  was 
cheated  out  of  it  in  the  city.  The  loss  of  his  money 
preyed  upon  his  mind;  he  could  not  stand  the  hu- 
miliation of  asking  his  wife,  as  he  puts  it,  for  two- 
pence to  take  the  omnibus.  Mother  did  not  care 
for  father,  she  cared  for  some  one  else,  and  that 
of  course  made  father's  dependence  still  more  humili- 
ating. It  preyed  on  his  mind,  and  he  lives  in  the 
house  like  a  servant,  in  a  little  room  under  the  roof 
that  the  kitchen-maid  would  not  sleep  in.     He  has 


448  CELIBATES. 

a  type-writing  machine  up  there,  and  he  makes  a  few 
shillings  a  week  by  copying;  he  bought  the  butler's 
old  overcoat  ...  It  is  very  sad  to  see  him  up 
there  at  work,  and  to  hear  him  talk.  .  .  I  must 
tell  you  that  the  people  who  come  here  are  not  good 
people,  I  don't  think  that  they  can  be  very  nice ;  the 
conversation  in  this  drawing-room  I'm  sure  is  not. 
.  .  .  There  is  a  man  who  comes  here  whom  I  don't 
like  at  all,  a  Mr,  Moulton.  He  says  things  that  are 
not  nice,  and  he  tried  to  kiss  me  the  other  day.  I 
was  afraid  of  him,  and  mother  used  to  leave  me  alone 
with  him.  I  had  difficulty  in  getting  away  from 
him,  so  I  asked  father  to  speak.  I  thought  that 
father,  when  he  met  him  alone,  would  tell  him  not 
to  talk  as  he  did,  but  father  got  so  angry,  that  not- 
withstanding all  I  could  do  to  prevent  him  he  went 
down  in  his  old  clothes  to  the  drawing-room,  and,  I 
suppose,  insulted  every  one.  Anyhow  they  all  went 
away.  I  felt  that  something  was  happening,  so  I  lis- 
tened on  the  stairs.  Father  and  mother  were  talking 
violently,  and  when  he  grasped  mother's  throat  —  I 
rushed  between  them.     That  is  the  whole  story.' 

'A  very  terrible  story.' 

'  So  you  see  that  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  remain 
here.  I  cannot  meet  mother  after  what  has  hap- 
pened. You  must  take  me  to  the  convent  to-night. 
Say  that  you  will,  Father  White.' 


AGNES  LAHENS.  449 

'  Have  you  not  thought,  my  child,  that  it  may  be 
your  duty  to  remain  here  as  mediator,  as  peace- 
maker ? ' 

'  Father  has  promised  me  that  he  will  never  raise 
his  hand  to  mother  again.  I  made  him  understand 
that  it  was  by  gentleness  and  patience  she  must  be 
won  back.' 

'  All  the  more  reason  that  you  should  remain  here 
to  watch  and  encourage  the  good  work  you  have 
begun.' 

'  But,  Father  White,  I  feel  that  I  have  done  all  that 
I  can  do.  .  .  .     My  prayers  must  do  the  rest.' 

*  But  your  presence  in  this  house  would  be  an  in- 
fluence for  good,  and  would  check  again,  as  it  did 
to-day,  these  unhappy  outbursts  of  violence.' 

'Father  has  promised  me  never  to  resort  to  vio- 
lence again  ;  my  presence  is  the  temptation  to  do  so, 
things  might  happen  —  things  would  be  sure  to  hap- 
pen that  would  force  him  to  forget  his  promise.  He 
might  kill  mother —  that  is  the  way  these  things 
end.  He  has  borne  with  a  great  deal ;  he  has  said 
nothing ;  people  think  that  he  feels  nothing  ;  he  may 
think  so  himself,  but  something  is  all  the  while 
growing  within  him,  and  the  day  comes  when  he 
will  stand  it  no  longer,  when  he  will  kill  mother. 
Very  little  suffices,  I  very  nearly  sufficed.  ...  I 
must  go,  Father,  you  must  take  me  away.' 

2G 


450  {  CEUBATES. 

Agnes  spoke  out  of  the  fulness  of  her  instinct, 
and  Father  White  wondered,  for  such  knowledge  of 
life  seemed  very  strange  in  one  of  Agnes'  age  and 
ignorance. 

'  I  understand,  my  child.  As  you  say,  it  is  diffi- 
cult for  you  to  remain  here.  But  I  cannot  take  you 
away  without  consulting  your  father.' 

*  Father  will  not  oppose  my  returning  to  the  con- 
vent, I  have  spoken  to  him.  He  knows  how  un- 
happy I  am.' 

'But  I  cannot  take  you  away  without  his  authority.' 
'  I  did  not  intend  to  leave  without  bidding  father 

good-bye.     We  can  stop  the  cab  as  we  go  round  the 

Square.' 

'  But  your  clothes  are  not  packed.' 

*  They  will  lend  me  all  I  want  at  the  convent,  my 
clothes  can  be  sent  after  me.  Father,  you  must 
take  me  away,  I  cannot  remain  here  and  meet 
mother  after  what  happened.  My  mission  here  is 
ended ;  prayer  will  do  the  rest.  I  want  to  go  to  the 
convent  so  that  I  shall  be  free  to  pray  for  mother.' 

Unable  to  resist  the  intensity  of  the  girl's  will. 
Father  White  answered  that  he  would  wait  for  her 
while  she  went  upstairs  to  get  her  hat  and  jacket. 
As  he  paced  the  room  he  tried  to  think,  but  he 
could  not  catch  a  single  thread  of  thought.  He 
was  merely  aware  of  the  horrible  position  that  this 


AGNES  LAHENS.  45 1 

dear,  good  and  innocent  girl  had  so  unexpectedly 
found  herself  thrust  into,  and  of  the  good  sense  and 
resource  she  had  displayed  in  her  time  of  trial.  '  No 
doubt  she  is  right,'  he  thought,  '  she  cannot  remain 
here.  .  .  .  She  must  go  back  to  the  convent,  at 
least  for  the  present.  But  once  she  goes  back  she 
will  never  again  be  persuaded  to  leave  it.  So  much 
the  better,  another  soul  for  God  and  joy  everlasting.' 

The  door  opened.  Agnes  wore  the  same  dress  as 
she  had  arrived  in,  the  same  little  black  fur  jacket, 
and  her  hands  were  in  the  same  little  mufif.  They 
went  downstairs  without  speaking,  and  Father  White 
called  a  four-wheeled  cab.     As  they  got  in  he  said : 

'  You  know  that  I  cannot  possibly  take  you  away 
without  first  obtaining  your  father's  authority.' 

'  We  shall  meet  him  as  we  go  round  the  Square. 
Tell  the  cabman  to  drive  slowly,  I'll  keep  watch 
this  side,  you  keep  watch  that  side,  we  can't  miss 
him.' 

'I'm  to  drive  round  the  Square  till  you  see  a 
gentleman  walking .'' ' 

*Yes,  and  then  we'll  stop  you,'  said  Father 
White. 

Suddenly  Agnes  cried  'There  is  father,  there.' 
Father  White  poked  his  umbrella  through  the 
window,  and  Agnes  screamed,  and  she  had  to 
scream  her  loudest,  so  absorbed  was  the  Major. 


452  CELIBATES. 

'Father  White  called  to  see  me.  I've  asked  him 
to  take  me  back  to  the  convent.  You'll  let  me  go, 
father?     I  shall  be  happier  there  than  at  home.' 

The  Major  did  not  answer  and  the  priest  said: 

*  If  you'll  allow  me,  Major  Lahens,  I'd  like  to 
have  a  few  minutes'  conversation  with  you.' 

He  got  out  of  the  cab  and  Agnes  waited  anxiously. 
She  could  hear  them  talking,  and  she  prayed  that 
she  might  sleep  at  the  convent  that  night.  At  last 
the  Major  came  to  the  cab  door  and  said : 

'  If  you  wish,  Agnes,  to  go  back  to  the  convent 
with  Father  White  you  can.  I'll  work  hard  and 
make  some  money  and  then  you'll  come  and  live 
with  me.' 

*  Yes,  father,  .  .  .  Remember  you'll  always  be  in 
my  thoughts  ...  It  is  good  of  you  to  let  me  go, 
indeed  it  is.  You  must  try  not  to  miss  me  too 
much  and  you'll  often  come  and  see  me.' 

'  Yes,  dear,' 

'And,  father,  dear,  you'll  remember  your  promise.' 

'Yes,  dear  .  ,  ,     Good-bye,' 

She  kissed  her  father  on  the  forehead  and  burst 
into  tears.  The  cab  jangled  on,  the  priest  did  not 
speak  and  gradually  through  the  girl's  grief  there 
grew  remembrance  of  the  road  leading  to  the  con- 
vent. And,  though  they  were  still  five  miles  away 
or  more,  she  saw  the  gate  at  the  corner  of  the  lane. 


AGNES  LAHENS.  453 

the  porteress  too.  She  saw  the  quiet  sedate  nuns 
hastening  down  the  narrow  passages  towards  their 
chapel.  She  saw  them  playing  with  their  doves  like 
innocent  children,  she  saw  them  chase  the  ball  down 
the  gravel  walks  and  across  the  swards.  She  saw 
her  life  from  end  to  end,  from  the  moment  when  the 
porteress  would  open  the  door  to  the  time  when  she 
would  be  laid  in  the  little  cemetery  at  the  end  of  the 
garden  where  the  nuns  go  to  rest. 


THE   END. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

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